


knuckle tape

by luftballons99



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Blood and Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Fist Fights, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, In later chapters - Freeform, M/M, Physical Abuse, Protective Siblings, Romance, Sibling Bonding, Underage Drinking, mild possessive behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 09:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11354202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luftballons99/pseuds/luftballons99
Summary: "As Killua leans on the smudged bus window on his way home, watching road signs and cars blur by, he reflects on the elegant but firm pivot of Gon’s stance before a kick; the way every movement would pass through his entire body like a tidal wave; the way they would circle each other, hands raised and feet light, and thinks it was a little bit like a dance."It's the beginning of senior year and Killua finally has a friend (or five) - just don't tell his family.





	1. Finding Something To Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [softkilluas99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softkilluas99/gifts).



> chapter title from the song "finding something to do" by hellogoodbye
> 
> THIS IS FOR YOU, KAZ. thanks for beta reading all this gay shit

He kickboxes.

The kid who wears brightly colored micro shorts and can’t do basic algebra, but who everyone loves anyway - the airhead with the heart of gold - beats the shit out of inanimate targets after school for fun.

The reason Killua knows this? He does the same thing.

Not the micro shorts or the algebra - Killua seems to have a better grasp of both fashion and math than  _ he  _ does. It’s the beating the shit out of things that they have in common, though Killua has been known not to restrict himself to practice dummies.

For Killua, it’s just another way to stay out of the house for a little longer - hopefully long enough to miss charged family dinners and icy looks from across the table. It’s either kickboxing or doing something dumb enough at school to land him in detention, and while Killua never really had a problem sitting around in a classroom for a few extra hours a day, repeated offenses on his part could earn him a concerned call home, and that’s not something he wants to deal with, like, ever.

So Killua kickboxes. And so does  _ he  _ \- but it becomes obvious fairly quickly that  _ he’s _ not just doing it to kill time.

It’s Killua’s first day. He doesn’t want to wait around for Gotoh to pick him up from school, so he takes the public bus to the kickboxing place, a black backpack with gym clothes stuffed in between loose papers and tattered books inside slung over one shoulder. School started two weeks ago, buzzing with students and the last pulse of summer before the september air turns cold and the green leaves brown. It bores Killua out of his fucking mind, but boredom’s better than the dread he feels after spending too much time at home.

It’s a relatively short ride to the kickboxing place. Killua readjusts his backpack strap as he catches the jingling door with his elbow after the asshole in front of him is about to just let it fall shut, instead of maybe holding it open like any decent person would. Piece of shit.

Killua memorizes the dude’s face as he slips through the entrance after him so he can imagine it on one of the practice dummies he sees lined up against the wall in the matted area towards the back. He forgets it immediately when he spots a second, more familiar face pinched in exertion as the body it belongs to jabs its taped up knuckles and snaps its bruised legs against a worn punching bag dangling from the ceiling.

Killua gapes, his backpack almost slipping off his shoulder as he slumps forward and squints his eyes in disbelief, because  _ that _ \- the kid who has almost as many beads of sweat running down his face as he does freckles; who laughs so loud and bright Killua can  _ always  _ single out his voice, even in a crowded cafeteria - is one angry Gon Freecss.

Killua doesn’t make it a point to notice him at school, it just  _ happens _ .  _ Everyone  _ notices him. His smile could light up a fucking football stadium. He makes friends like it’s his fucking job. He gets shit grades, but teachers love him anyway; love the way he holds open doors and makes extra copies for absent students and weirdly isn’t obnoxious about it. He’s one of the few people Killua knows (and Killua uses that term loosely) who doesn’t seem to have some kind of weird agenda, himself included.

In fact Gon’s so fucking pleasant, they say he’s only ever gotten mad  _ once _ . It happened ages ago, apparently; it’s little more than a whispered legend - a mythic secret - nowadays. Killua had thought it was bullshit - until  _ now _ .

The boy Killua catches glimpses of in the hall - the boy with the electric grin and dependable, broad shoulders that  _ someone  _ is always leaning on - seems like a dreamlike entity now.  _ This  _ boy is different. 

_ This _ boy is a spitfire. Drops of sweat fly from his skin in embers with every harsh movement. Killua swallows, deeply unsettled but unable to look away. He’d known Gon is strong - he’s on, like, every athletic team at their school, and those fucking micro shorts don’t do much to hide his powerful legs (not that Killua was ever looking), but this is  _ more _ . This is  _ force _ , this is  _ aggression _ . 

Who knew the sunshine child had it in him? Killua’s honestly kind of intrigued; impressed, even.

He ducks into the locker room, changes, and is back out on the mat in a matter of minutes. He watches Gon take a break from pummeling the punching bag like it had personally offended him, wiping sweat from his forehead, chest heaving. Killua walks over coolly, pretending not to notice him at first and instead flicking the nose of the practice dummy next to the punching bag Gon dented the shit out of. After a moment he thinks he feels Gon looking at him and only then does he choose to spare him a glance.

“Hey,” Killua says mildly. Gon’s face is a sweaty, blotchy mess, but he’s not glaring the way he was before. He looks refreshed, new, raw. Less like a crackling inferno, more like a dripping candle. Killua’s unsettled feeling is gone, but the curiosity is still there.

Gon blinks in surprise, gaze calculating. “Hi,” he breathes, rubbing his wet palms on his shorts and fixing his eyes on Killua’s. Suddenly, his lips quirk in recognition. “You go to my school!”

He looks genuinely happy to see Killua for some reason. It’s  _ weird _ , but Killua isn’t exactly averse to it. He clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. We have calculus together,” Killua informs, doing some half-assed arm stretches, and Gon snaps his fingers. “I didn’t know you did this kinda thing.”

Gon tilts his head, smiling unassumingly. “What kinda thing?” he wonders. The irony of goody-two-shoes Gon being into contact sports is evidently lost on him.

Killua shrugs. “I dunno. Like,” he starts, gesturing towards the beat-up punching bag in front of Gon, “kickboxing. I pegged you as more of a team sports kinda guy.”

Gon laughs, which pleases Killua for some reason. He turns to face Gon fully. “I am,” Gon assures him, shaking feeling into his undoubtedly numb fingers. “But this is fun, too.”

Killua hums. “Yeah,” he agrees, twisting his upper body from side to side to stretch his back muscles, feeling a satisfying crack. He wants to get  _ moving  _ already; wants to feel his muscles sting. An idea comes to him. 

“Spar with me,” he says, surprising himself but keeping his expression neutral.

Gon just grins sheepishly. “I dunno…” he says, uncertain, hesitant, bashful. Who  _ is  _ this kid?

Killua raises an eyebrow. “Too tired?” he questions, doubting it. Sure, Gon’s sweating like hell, but his eyes are alert, his stance firm.

“I just wouldn’t wanna hurt you, is all,” he says sincerely, and Killua can’t help but snicker. Despite what he saw earlier, he has trouble believing Gon could actually hurt anybody, and even if he could, it wouldn’t be Killua. Gon’s not the only one with martial arts experience.

“Dude,” Killua laughs, cracking his knuckles and jerking his head towards the empty center of the mat. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

 

That’s how they meet, officially: completely by chance and good-naturedly beating the shit out of each other for sport. Killua can’t help but laugh as the sweat pours down his temples and his muscles get sore. Gon mirrors him, grinning and matching each of Killua’s attacks with a countermove that Killua has to be quick to dodge. They come out of it with bruises, but as Killua leans on the smudged bus window on his way home, watching road signs and cars blur by, he reflects on the elegant but firm pivot of Gon’s stance before a kick; the way every movement would pass through his entire body like a tidal wave; the way they would circle each other, hands raised and feet light, and thinks it was a little bit like a dance.

 

* * *

 

 

“Alluka,” Killua stage whispers, rapping his knuckles against his sister’s bedroom door. He hears rustling sheets and creaking bed springs on the other side, but doesn’t receive a verbal response. He sighs. “I’m coming in,” he warns, turning the doorknob and slipping into her room. He steps over to her bed, the carpeted floor soft under his feet, and slowly sits down next to her. He smiles.

She’s completely covered by her baby pink comforter, little more than a big lump among the sheets, though twisted strands of her dark hair stick out from under it in contrast with her white pillow. It makes the tangles in her hair all the more visible, and Killua grimaces internally, hoping he won’t be given the strenuous task of brushing them out.

“Alluka,” he repeats softly, resting a hand over what he assumes is her shoulder, though it's hard to tell with the thick comforter in the way. How she can sleep with this thing while it’s still technically summer and not be a sweaty mess is beyond Killua - but then, the basement is a few degrees cooler than the rest of the house. “ _ Alluka _ . Time to get up.”

“ _ Mnnnrrgg _ ,” Alluka replies, voice muffled under the covers. She shifts, curling in on herself even more. Killua’s mouth tilts into a smile. He peels back the comforter, despite her protesting moans. Her eyes are screwed shut against the morning light, lips twisted, cheek marked red from where it had been pressed against her pillow. She blindly reaches for Killua, palm lightly colliding with his nose. She pats her way up to his hair, curls her hand around the back of his head, and pulls him down. She clings to him like a baby koala, burying her face in his collarbone and saying, “I don’t feel good.”

“Bull _ shit _ ,” Killua scoffs, but the way he lightly pets through her hair betrays his fondness for her. “Come on. You’re going to school.”

Alluka whines when he sits up and pries her from her bed. She teeters when she stands, so much so that Killua feels he has to grab her by the shoulders to steady her. He gives her a stern look that she can’t see, since her eyes are still closed, and pinches her cheek. She yelps, her eyes snapping open.

“Be a big girl,” Killua says, shoving her towards her dresser. “Get dressed. I’ll make coffee.”

Alluka sighs dramatically. “Okay,” she relents and starts rifling through one of her drawers. Killua leaves the room, closing the door behind him, and heads upstairs to the kitchen.

His family is out working by now, so the only other people in the house besides him and Alluka are the butlers, and Killua doesn’t have to worry about them. He gets cereal from the cabinets and milk from the fridge for their breakfast before making Alluka a sandwich for her lunch. When Alluka comes up the stairs, still yawning, Killua smiles, jerking his head towards the kitchen island where her cereal is waiting for her, two mugs of coffee in hand. They eat while talking about their schedules for the day. 

“I have to do this dumb bio project about different genetic mutations,” Alluka tells him through a spoonful of milk and frosted flakes, her head resting lazily in her hand.

Killua yawns, taking a sip of coffee, the bitter taste settling over his tongue pleasantly. “D’you wanna go over your talking points with me?” he offers, setting down his mug before shoveling cocoa puffs into his mouth.

Alluka nods and takes a large gulp of sugary coffee. She sets her cat mug back down, claps her hands firmly in concentration, and starts.

Killua listens as he eats, asking follow up questions every now and then and nodding proudly when she gets them right. She recites everything perfectly, aside from a few details, and Killua tells her as much.

She sighs. “I hope you’re right,” she says uncertainly, rising from her seat and dropping her dishes in the sink. Killua turns, throwing an arm over the back of his chair and smirking at her.

“I’m  _ always  _ right,” he tells her. 

She snorts. “Really? Because I could name a few examples that prove the opposite.”

Killua clicks his tongue at her scoldingly. He drops his own dishes in the sink and reaches for the brown paper lunch bag on the counter, holding it out to her. “Sure you could,” he says as Alluka takes the bag from him and they make their way to the front door.

Alluka jabs him in the side, offended. “It’s true!” she insists. “Like, remember that time - “

“Look, I already know what you’re gonna say, and I’m  _ telling  _ you, you don’t know for sure that it  _ wasn’t  _ a ghost.” Killua picks his and Alluka’s backpacks up off the floor and slings one over his shoulder, handing her the other. Alluka accepts it, but not without sticking her tongue out at him.

They bicker on their way out the door. Gotoh drives them to school, because their parents  _ still _ don’t trust Killua enough to get him his own car, and soon they’re navigating the cramped halls of Yorkshin High. They say a rushed goodbye, complete with a ten year old secret handshake, and find their way to their classrooms. 

Killua dodges elbows and glances as he carves paths through the suffocating mass of students. He is only half-successful - Ikalgo and Canary spot him as they rifle through their lockers and offer him a friendly wave and a nod, respectively. Killua nods back. They don’t get the chance to start a conversation, which works for Killua because as much as he likes them, all he  _ really _ wants to do is make it to his desk and sleep through English. But his plans get thrown out the window after all when he gets distracted by whichever asshole just stepped on the back of his shoe and he bumps into the person in front of him. Killua jerks back, quickly regaining his footing.

“What the  _ fuck _ ,” he hisses, readjusting his backpack strap and lifting his leg behind him so he can pull the heel of his shoe back into place. He looks back up and freezes in surprise. “Oh,” he says, his irritation flushing out of him immediately.

“Ah, Killua,” Gon says brightly -  _ too  _ brightly, given the early hour. “It’s you!”

Killua casually pushes his hands into his pockets. “It’s me!” he mimics Gon’s excited tone. Gon laughs, Killua almost smiles, and somehow they make the silent, mutual decision to keep walking.

“What class do you have now?” Gon asks, but then gets distracted by his friends; some people Killua doesn’t know - a tall guy in glasses who kind of looks way too old to be here and a short blond kid who kind of looks way too  _ done _ to be here. Gon waves at them and shouts a hello before turning back towards Killua again, smiling expectantly.

But Killua doesn’t get the chance to answer before someone else tries to monopolize Gon’s attention. In fact, everyone they pass offers him some kind of greeting, whether it’s an approving nod or a cheerful exclamation, and it’s frankly a little fascinating to witness. Gon seems torn between talking to Killua and answering the onslaught of  _ Hi, Gon _ ’s and  _ What’s up _ ’s being thrown his way. Killua watches, a little in awe.

“English,” Killua answers when Gon turns back to look at him.

“Huh? Oh, English - ” Gon says quickly, cheery but frantic, before some guy claps a hand on his shoulder and tries to start a conversation about Killua doesn’t know what - probably football or something, judging by the varsity jacket. Gon politely cuts him off, saying that he needs to get to class but promising that they’ll talk later, and turns back to Killua. He sighs deeply in relief, closing his eyes, but then opening them again as he gives Killua an apologetic smile.

Killua smiles back crookedly. “Look at you, all popular n’ shit,” he praises. Gon shrugs in his thick yellow hoodie, chuckling modestly.

“Well, ya know,” he says, blushing warmly and shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket. Killua feels pinpricks of heat crawl into his own cheeks and looks away.

He clears his throat. “What class do  _ you _ have now?” he asks Gon as they round a corner. They’re getting close to Killua’s locker - which reminds him, he needs to grab his book so he has something to prop up and block his sleeping face from the teacher’s view with.

Gon wrinkles his freckled nose in displeasure, making him look a little like a fussy child. Killua’s heart skips a beat, for whatever reason - he tries not to think about it.

“Chemistry,” he almost hisses, sticking out his tongue in disgust like the word itself leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Killua snickers at Gon’s dismayed look. So he’s bad at calc  _ and  _ chemistry. Sciences aren’t really Gon’s strong suit, it seems - he really is an athlete.

“Not your thing?” Killua asks in a way that implies he already knows the answer, and Gon just groans. “What classes  _ do  _ you like?”

Gon sighs, thinking. He follows Killua to his locker, crossing his arms in contemplation. Killua enters the combination, staring at Gon out of the corner of his eye - at the pensive knit of his brow, the curve of his neck when he leans his head and shoulder against the wall, the concentrated eyes looking up at the ceiling. He’s acting like Killua just asked him something vitally important instead of just making smalltalk.

“Gym,” Gon answers finally and Killua is torn from his reverie, bursting out laughing. Gon gives him a questioning look, brown skin going suddenly red. “What, what?” he asks desperately, not getting it. “What’s so funny?”

Killua shakes his head. “No shit you like gym; you’re on, like, every athletic team known to man.” Killua hadn’t exactly meant it as praise, but Gon seems to take it that way anyway, smiling humbly. “I meant, I dunno, history or something.”

Gon tilts his head in confusion, expression going quizzical. “But I don’t like history?” he says. Killua chuckles, reaching into his locker and shoving loose papers around to get at his English textbook.

“I meant what classes _other_ than gym do you like?” Killua rephrases his earlier question.

Gon goes back to humming thoughtfully. Killua swipes his textbook out of his locker and immediately slams the door shut before he’s buried in an avalanche of half-completed homework assignments and chocorobo boxes.  _ It’s only been two weeks since school started, why is there so much shit in here already? _

“I dunno,” Gon decides finally, shrugging with a smile like he’s completely at peace with his apparent lack of interest in anything not sports related. “I like moving around is all.” He starts running in place to illustrate his point, eyes lighting up when Killua ducks his head in laughter.

“I guess I can’t blame you,” Killua reasons, tugging on his backpack strap and continuing on his way to his classroom. They’re almost there; they’ll have to stop talking soon. Killua shoves his disappointment deep down inside where he won’t have to try and figure out what it means. “I like sports, too. But I guess you already knew that.”

Gon giggles, bouncing on his heels. “Yeah - hey, you’re really good, by the way!” he compliments earnestly, eyes big in wonder. Killua finds himself having to avert his gaze again, because Gon’s face does something weird to his heart and whatever it is, it can’t be good. “I’ve never met someone I couldn’t beat in a sparring match!”

Killua laughs, still not meeting Gon’s eyes. “You know, it sounds super cocky, but same here,” he confesses slyly. He pauses. “Well, except my little sister, Alluka. But that’s only because she pulls my hair.” He’s not sure why he’s volunteering that information - Killua isn’t really the type to volunteer  _ anything _ ; doesn’t usually do things without getting something out of it, which he, personally, blames on his family - but Gon starts laughing. Hands-clutching-his-stomach laughing. Killua hadn’t thought it was  _ that _ funny, but he isn’t about to complain about getting to hear Gon laugh, much less about him being the reason for it.

Killua finds himself laughing too, albeit unsurely. He hasn’t laughed this much in a while. It feels foreign in his chest, makes his body hum like a purring cat. It’s… nice. Weird, but nice.

They reach Killua’s classroom. He pauses in front of the door. Gon looks like he’s about to keep walking, but halts when he realizes Killua is no longer next to him, but behind. He turns, glances into the classroom. The confusion in his face gives way to understanding.

“Oh, right, this is - “

“Yeah.”

They stand there, awkwardly scuffing their shoes against the linoleum floor as people pass between them. Killua glances up to look at Gon the same time Gon glances up to look at Killua. Gon’s eyes are a warm brown, honest but smart, looking through Killua and seeing something there; seeming to understand something about the world that Killua can’t quite grasp.

Gon blinks and the hypnosis is over. Killua is back on earth. Gon giggles. Killua lights up and snickers back.

“Okay, well, um,” Gon laughs, just as the bell rings. He jolts in alarm and starts gesturing somewhere behind him, running in place again and starting to take a few hesitant steps back. “Ah, well, you know - “

“Chemistry,” Killua supplies and Gon grins, doing finger guns as he starts running backwards to his classroom. He almost trips, but regains his footing and flashes Killua a quick thumbs up. Killua shakes his head, laughing.

“Right! That!” Gon calls to him, already halfway down the hall. “I’ll see you later, Killua!”

Something about his name on Gon’s tongue makes him shiver pleasantly. He sends Gon a small, giddy wave in return. “Y-Yeah! Later, dude!”

Gon disappears around a corner, waving with both arms. When Killua can’t see his spiky hair sticking up between the mass of students anymore, he enters his classroom. He takes his usual seat next to Canary and nods to her, smiling. She raises an eyebrow at him, but nods back nonetheless.

The teacher starts droning a few minutes later, but as Killua crosses his arms over his desk and rests his chin on them, he finds that, bizarrely, he isn’t tired anymore. He listens intently as Mr. Knov points out classical allusions in a poem Killua was supposed to read but didn’t.

“Don’t tell me none of you understand this reference,” Mr. Knov says wearily and sighs when his students remain cluelessly silent. He holds up his book and taps the page insistently with a pointed finger. “The wings of wax don’t ring a bell?”

The class is silent, aside from Knov’s disappointed groaning. “It saddens me that the public school system has failed you all so badly.”

“Does that mean you’ll bump up my grade this semester?” someone calls out from the back of the classroom. Everyone snickers. 

“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,” Knov says.

“But you just did,” Canary counters under her breath. Only Killua hears her and they meet eyes for a moment only to roll them in unison.

“Look,” Knov starts, “This is a reference to one of the most famous Greek myths of all time.” He paces back and forth at the front of the classroom, a known precedent for one of his notorious rants. “A young man tries to escape a labyrinth by flying out on wings made of wax. He is warned not to fly too close to the sun, lest his wings melt, nor too low, lest the sea’s dampness clog them. He must strike a balance between hubris and humility to escape.”

Killua, having completely lost interest, rests his chin in his palm and gazes out the window to his left. It’s a nice day; bright and warm. He closes his eyes against the sun’s rays. Distantly, Knov goes on.

“Can anyone tell me what happens next?” he probes expectantly. A moment later, Canary is speaking.

“He doesn’t listen. He flies too high and his wings melt,” she recites simply. Nerd.

“That’s right. And can you tell me this mythological figure’s name?” Knov challenges.

Killua glances to the side, scanning Canary’s expression. She smirks. 

“Icarus,” she says, “It’s the story of Icarus and the sun.”

Killua turns back to the window. The words mean nothing to him.

 

* * *

 

 

Killua doesn’t see Gon before his next class and doesn’t seek him out, either. Even so, the weird tingly feeling he’s had ever since they had talked persists.

“You’re chipper today,” Komugi observes as Killua adjusts one of the knobs on their shared microscope, squinting through the eyepiece and trying to catch a glimpse of a chromosome. No luck. “Did something good happen?”

Killua hesitates at first, fiddling with the knobs some more. Usually he’d scoff at the mere prospect of things going well - it’s such a foreign concept that he’s automatically suspicious of anyone who says they are. But today he can’t seem to scrape together enough bitterness to shoot back a sarcastic remark.

“Nothing really,” he says, shrugging. He glances over to Komugi, who, despite being blind, manages to stare directly into his eyes. It’s kind of unnerving, so Killua focuses back on the microscope, ignoring how weirdly naked he feels when Komugi looks at him.

“I heard you were talking to Gon Freecss,” she says suddenly. Killua jerks in surprise so hard he overturns the knobs on either side of the microscope, cursing under his breath. Back to square one.  _ Dammit _ .

Komugi grins. “Are you selling out?”

Killua rolls his eyes. Komugi seems to feel it, somehow, her grin widening. Killua’s good mood sours, if only slightly.

“Nope,” he says simply, “I’m still the same old hipster punk asshole.” He gives up on actually doing the experiment and decides to just look busy whenever the teacher passes by, which isn’t often - there are other, dumber students in the room who apparently won’t stop dicking around with the lab equipment to deal with.

Komugi giggles, fishing a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiping her perpetually running nose. Killua grimaces at the loud sniff that follows, averting his eyes. He pauses to think for a moment before clearing his throat and casually asking, “How’d you hear that, anyway? About me and Freecss.” 

He starts sweating in the long pause before Komugi answers, wondering if she can see through him, somehow, and if so, what she finds.

“You and Freecss,” Komugi echoes, and Killua regrets his wording immediately. There is no Killua and Gon, there is no  _ them _ . That’s not what Killua meant, he just -  _ Dammit _ .

For a moment he worries that she’s gonna make some kind of unnecessary comment about kissing in trees, but in the end, Komugi just shrugs. Killua doesn’t let himself sigh in relief.

“I dunno. Stuff gets around,” she goes on, smiling playfully. She points to both of her ears before adding, “And since I’m blind, my sense of hearing is heightened.”

Killua raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Right,” he says, hesitantly deciding to let it go. It’s no big deal, people just have nothing better to do than gossip. What Killua does is his business and that’s that. He doesn’t have to justify it to anyone, least of all some girl from his biology class. Komugi’s nice and all - polite, for the most part, and pretty cute once you get past her constantly snotty nose - but it’s not like they’re friends or anything.

“He’s kinda hot though, right?” Komugi says contemplatively,  _ suddenly _ . Killua almost sputters, taken aback, goosebumps erupting on the flesh of his arms.

“How the fuck would you know?” he demands, bristling.

Komugi raises her hands in defense. “Well, I  _ don’t  _ know, that’s why I’m asking,” she explains. “ _ Geez _ .” She pouts, crossing her arms over her side of their shared desk and slumping against it.

Killua sighs. She reminds him a little bit of Alluka when Killua accidentally (intentionally) steals from her secret pudding supply tucked into the back corner of the fridge. “Sorry,” he grunts, glancing off to the side. “Heightened sense of hearing, stuff gets around and all that.”

Komugi nods, her smile coming back. “So?” she urges. “Is he?”

Killua ignores his racing heart; the sweat accumulating in his palms. Why does she even care, and more importantly, why does  _ Killua _ ? 

“I don’t know,” he answers flippantly, though he’s not sure if he’s responding to Komugi’s question or his own thoughts. Maybe both.

Komugi sighs, a long and drawn out thing, and stretches lazily across the table. “You’re no help,” she laments, and Killua has to agree.

He springs up from his chair and starts fiddling with the microscope when he feels their teacher’s eyes back on him. He’s pretending to look through the eyepiece when he asks, “Aren’t you already dating someone, anyway?” Killua tries to come up with a name for that someone, but can’t. All Killua knows about him is that he wears a green beanie everywhere, that he generally seems like the kind of person one should not fuck with, and that girls like Komugi should probably stay far away from him. But that’s not Killua’s problem.

Komugi blushes, a smile curling her lips. Killua almost gags. “Sort of,” she giggles lowly, wrapping her arms around herself and swaying in her seat like the lovestruck dummy she is. Killua doesn't need to know any more.

“Alright,” he says, narrowing his eyes at her, “get that goofy look off your face. It’s gross.”

Komugi doesn’t seem to hear him, cradling her face in her hands now and swinging her dangling legs back and forth. “Meruem likes my goofy face,” she says finally and Killua sighs in defeat, rubbing the bridge of his nose.


	2. With Friends Like These

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Listen,” Killua hears, and comes to the realization that ignoring whoever else is up here is actually going to be pretty much impossible, if their loud, aggravated voices are anything to go by, “I’m not saying anyone who doesn’t share my music taste is wrong, per se - “
> 
> “Yes,” a new, quieter but equally irritated voice cuts in, “you are.”
> 
> “ - Yeah, on second thought, you’re actually right, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my cat walked across my keyboard a few times while i was uploading this so if theres any weird typos....you know why

Lunch might be Killua’s least favorite part of the day, besides waking up. Sure, it’s nice to get a break from boring classes and endless work packets, but the _people_ are something Killua can’t seem to get away from. They’re _everywhere_ , not to mention _loud_ , and Killua usually just wants to find a quiet place to put his headphones on, sit down, and eat in peace.

But he’s already realized that something is just fundamentally _off_ with him today, so his usual misanthropy feels… diluted, somehow.

He enters the cafeteria and spots Ikalgo and Canary in the lunch line. Not wanting to wait for food any longer than he needs to, Killua casually cuts in front of them, whistling inconspicuously.

“Oh hell no,” Canary laughs, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him behind her. Ikalgo snickers at her side, hands shoved deep into the middle pockets of his trademark red hoodie.

“Worth a shot,” Killua says with an easy smile and a shrug, hands raised in defeat. Canary looks at him, dark, intricately made-up eyes calculating as if Killua is a jar of jellybeans and she’s trying to guess how many are inside. Killua is about to ask _why_ , but Ikalgo speaks up before he gets the chance.

“Hey, dude,” he starts, bushy brows scrunched and eyes suddenly serious, “I heard you and Freecss have been hanging out.” He crosses his thick arms over his chest and looks at Killua expectantly.

Killua deflates, his good mood plummeting. He sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “Do people at this school not have lives of their own?” he asks weakly, suddenly tired and exasperated.

Canary shrugs, turning to him and walking backwards when the line starts to move. “Nope. But who wants a life of their own, anyway?” She says it easily, like it’s normal to freak out about two kids having a regular conversation before class - _once_.

“Speak for yourself,” Killua says dryly. Is he really _that_ hungry, or could he just skip lunch and never talk to these people again?

(His empty stomach protests loudly at the thought. _Dammit._ )

Canary shoots him a plastic grin that breaks apart as quickly as it had formed.

Ikalgo huffs. “ _Dude_ ,” he says gravely, poking Killua in the chest with his chubby pointer finger, “Are you selling out?”

Killua sputters, provoked. “Nobody’s _selling ou_ \-- What is that even supposed to _mean_ ?” he demands, smacking Ikalgo’s finger away. _What the hell is everyone’s problem?_

“It _means_ ,” Ikalgo says pointedly, “that you’re gonna turn into a boring popular kid.” Killua rolls his eyes.

“I can’t believe people other than us actually _like you_ ,” Canary chimes in, amused. She smirks in response to the venomous look Killua sends her way before she seems to realize something and her face goes blank. “Hang on,” she starts slowly. “If _Killua’s_ suddenly so popular, how come I don’t have a girlfriend yet?”

_What does that have to do with anything?_

Ikalgo shrugs. “I guess it’s because you’re scary and everyone hates you.”

Canary hums. “That doesn’t seem likely,” she says, unconcerned. Killua smacks his palm against his forehead. “But anyway, I’m not the problem right now.”

“You’re definitely the problem,” Killua says incredulously. Canary lightly kicks his shin, snickering.

“So,” she says casually, “You into this kid?”

Killua blinks rapidly, going red - in irritation, he tells himself. “What are you _talking_ about?”

“In, like, a gay way?” Ikalgo clarifies. Killua groans.

“Of _course_ not,” he says firmly, hands clenched into fists at his sides. This is _stupid_ . It was _one_ conversation; one regular, casual conversation that Killua wants to keep between him and Gon, not because he’s _into him_ (in a gay way or otherwise), but because it’s nobody else’s business who he hangs out with. Everyone is so fucking _nosy_ ; it’s like Killua can’t _breathe_ . It’s bad enough that his family keeps tabs on everything he does. He doesn’t need a bunch of bored teens hounding him, too. “Guys, I _just_ met him. Everyone chill the fuck out.”

The line moves and the three of them get jostled along. Killua’s face is steaming as he swipes a lunch tray and stomps off. Canary and Ikalgo boo him when he turns to flip them off, and they continue to boo him even after he exits the cafeteria in favor of sitting somewhere outside. Out here, the air is fresh instead of heavy with the smell of greasy...whatever the hell is on Killua’s plate.

He breathes in the air, breathes out his lingering irritation. His phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out, taking a deep breath.

It’s a text from Ikalgo. That was quick.

_hey man, we didn’t mean to get on your case like that. we were just curious. our bad._

Killua sighs, balancing his lunch tray in one hand and holding his phone in the other, typing out a quick response with his thumb.

_it’s cool_

He pockets his phone, wanting the conversation to be over and glancing around for a place to sit. He avoids the small picnic tables already packed with students and heads up a hill, hoping he’ll be the only one at the top, but starts hearing jumbled voices as he makes his ascent.

 _Shit, there’s people up here, too_ , he thinks, dismayed, but continues on his way regardless. It doesn’t sound like there’s a lot of them. He’ll just pretend they’re not there.

“Listen,” Killua hears, and comes to the realization that ignoring whoever else is up here is actually going to be pretty much impossible, if their loud, aggravated voices are anything to go by, “I’m not saying anyone who doesn’t share my music taste is _wrong_ , per se - “

“Yes,” a new, quieter but equally irritated voice cuts in, “you _are_.”

“ - Yeah, on second thought, you’re actually right, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Killua snorts a laugh, almost at the top of the hill.

“See?” another voice adds - bright, unmistakeable, the person it belongs to probably wearing a placating smile and a yellow hoodie and _oh_ , “You _can_ agree on something!”

One more wide step and Killua is at the top, greeted by the sight of none other than Gon Freecss sitting cross-legged in the grass under a large willow with the two people Killua saw him wave to in the hall that morning - the blond kid with a sort of alarming amount of ear piercings and the old looking dude with the Lennon glasses.

Killua’s flight instincts kick in a bit too late. Gon turns and waves him over with an enthusiastic, “Hey, Killua!” before he can make a run for it. Killua’s uneasy, butterfly-lined stomach does a flip. He grips his lunch tray a little tighter and makes his way over. Gon pats the patch of grass next to him, beaming up at Killua and silently asking him to take a seat.

“Hey,” Killua says in a way that he hopes doesn’t sound as unnerved as he feels, dropping next to Gon and setting down his tray in front of him. If he wasn’t enthusiastic about eating his disgusting school lunch before, he certainly isn’t now, with the way his stomach turns in anxiety.

Talking to Gon alone is one thing - something Killua is weirdly okay with. But talking to his friends is a whole different ballgame, and Killua isn’t sure he wants to play. Still, he weirdly doesn’t feel _all_ bad. It’s more of a nervous-giddy combo. He wonders if Gon has that effect on people in general or if Killua is just particularly susceptible.

“Jazz or metal?” the dude with the Lennon glasses asks suddenly, leaning forward in expectation. Killua blinks, resisting the urge to back away. Gon laughs warmly.

“That’s Leorio,” he tells Killua.

“Jazz or metal,” Leorio repeats. _Uh…_

“He’s going to say metal,” the blond one contributes in a sigh from where they’re leisurely leaning against the trunk of the willow, as if Leorio is wasting everyone’s time. Killua raises an eyebrow.

“Kurapika,” Gon supplies, gesturing to them. Kurapika glances at Killua, scanning him up and down. Killua crosses his arms, as if that will shield him from their evaluating gaze somehow.

“C’mon, dude,” Leorio urges, squirming. Kurapika’s still staring at Killua, eyes like cold steel.

Gon sighs a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Oh boy,” he mutters, voice small.

Killua’s eyes dart back and forth between Kurapika and Leorio’s anticipating faces.

“Uh, I’m,” he starts and clears his throat, “mostly into R&B, actually.”

Kurapika’s eyes go wide, their indifferent mask slipping off and shattering on the ground. Leorio’s face splits in a triumphant grin. “Yes!” he yells, fist-pumping.

Kurapika shoots him a glare. “Why are _you_ so happy? We were both wrong.”

Leorio raises his chin up smugly. “Yeah, but R&B is closer to jazz than it is to metal, so it still counts as a win for me,” he explains. Killua sends a confused look Gon’s way, who just shrugs and mouths _Sorry, they’re always like this_.

Kurapika looks downright offended, raising one foot and elegantly kicking Leorio in the shoulder with it. “It does not,” they scoff. Leorio wraps a hand around their ankle and shoves it away, still smiling slyly.

“Does too,” he says and Kurapika seethes.

“Do you guys have to do this _every time_?” Gon sighs, dropping his head in defeat. “You make the worst first impressions ever!”

Kurapika and Leorio don’t seem to hear him, passing insults back and forth like a beat-up football. It seems almost familial, but there’s a weird glint in Kurapika’s eyes and a certain warmth in Leorio’s sly grin that makes Killua think it’s something else. He doesn’t comment.

Gon sighs again hopelessly, but recovers in record time, offering Killua his trademark grin. Killua’s own lips wobble in return. Gon looks back to his friends. “Ne, Leorio,” Gon says suddenly, pointing to the thermos lying in the grass at his friend’s side, “can I have some more of your tea?”

Leorio, who is fighting off more swift kicks from Kurapika, tosses Gon the thermos distractedly. Gon catches it and pops it open, drinking gratefully. “This means you owe me more of Mito-san’s noodles,” Leorio decides, just as the flat of Kurapika's foot collides with his shoulder. He groans. “I swear to god, Kurapika, I will rip off your shoe and fling it into the sun,” he warns tightly. Killua and Gon bark out a laugh, the latter almost spitting his tea all over everyone in the vicinity. He has to clamp his hand over his mouth to keep it from spilling out, but that only makes him - and Killua, for that matter - laugh more.

“It’s coming out of my nose!” Gon yells, half panicked, half dying of laughter. Even Kurapika and Leorio quit their bickering and join in, guffawing at Gon’s helplessly frantic expression.

“This is just like that time during chemistry last year,” Leorio laughs, wiping tears out of his eyes. “God, Gon, your _face_ \- “

Kurapika covers their face with their hand, collapsing back against the trunk of the tree in laughter. “ _Brilliant_ ,” they snicker.

Killua’s laugh comes to a slow stop before disappearing altogether. His smile falters. The three of them have obviously known each other for a long time. They have inside jokes that Killua will probably never get, they don’t stop to ask if one of them is sick before they share food or drink. The only person Killua can be so casual with is Alluka.

Friendship isn’t really his area of expertise. It’s not - It’s not the way he was raised. Maybe Illumi is right, maybe Killua really _doesn’t_ deserve -

Maybe he isn’t meant for this.

He tugs at the hem of his shirt, looking down at his pale ankles crossed in the grass.

“Ugh, don’t bring up _chemistry_ ,” he hears Gon whine helplessly while wiping his tea-damp hands on his shorts. “We had a pop quiz today, Killua, can you believe it?”

Killua almost flinches at the mention of his name, his head snapping up to face Gon. “Oh,” he says reflexively, “that fucking sucks.”

“ _Right_ ?” Gon groans, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation before reigning them back in and worriedly cupping his cheeks. “I failed for _sure_.”

Kurapika closes their eyes, sighing. “Gon, you’re not exactly dedicated when it comes to studying,” they say gently. “You could stand to review a bit more.”

Gon pouts. “It’s _boring_ ,” he huffs, tearing clumps of grass out of the ground in frustration. “You just... _sit there_.”

Leorio chuckles. He turns to Killua, who tenses a little. “What about you, Killua? I bet you’re like Kurapika and get good grades without even trying.”

Kurapika raises their chin elegantly. “Don’t trivialize my hard work,” they sniff proudly.

Killua shrugs, a little uncomfortable. “I ace all my exams and quizzes and stuff, but like, never turn in any assignments,” he confesses, “or study.”

Gon gapes, a long and drawn out whine pouring past his lips. Leorio shakes his head in disapproval. Kurapika sighs.

“Un _fair_ ,” Gon moans, throwing a clump of grass up in the air and sputtering when some of it lands in his face. Killua can’t help but laugh a little - Gon is kind of a doof, but in a remarkably non-obnoxious way. Killua watches him frantically wipe stray blades of grass out of his mouth in amusement - almost fondness. When Gon is finished, he straight up sulks. Killua wracks his brain for solutions.

“Kurapika, you could tutor him, couldn’t you?” Killua suggests, shrugging. Kurapika bites their lip.

“Allegedly I’m absolute _shit_ at explaining things,” they admit, shifting uncertainly.

“It’s true,” Leorio chimes in. “They get frustrated really quickly and then just give up.”

“ _Allegedly_ ,” Kurapika coughs. They turn to Gon, smiling apologetically. “Sorry.”

“Man,” Gon breathes, hanging his head. An idea comes to Killua and, like the idiot he fears he secretly is, grades aside, he voices it before he can think of the consequences.

“I could tutor you?” he offers unsurely. Everyone goes quiet for a moment and Killua sweats nervously, lips twisting awkwardly and eyes restless. Did he overstep? Did that make him seem cocky, somehow? _Shit fuck dammit fuck shit fuck fuck -_

Gon’s head snaps up. “ _Really_?” he gasps, scooting closer to Killua excitedly. “You really would?”

Gon’s face is so openly happy, so awed by Killua’s altruism, that his eyes actually sparkle and his skin glows pink. Killua has to look away. He shrugs.

“Yeah, why not?” he says casually, clearing his throat as his brain helpfully supplies at least fifty reasons _why not_ . He files them away so he can get to them later, probably when he’s lying in bed and recounting the myriad of times he’s fucked up in the past, well, _forever_. In his head, he shrieks. He hopes that outwardly he appears more casual.

That hope gets flung out the metaphorical window when Gon practically pounces on him, firm arms tight around Killua’s shoulders, cheek rubbing against the side of Killua’s face. Like this, Killua can feel how soft his skin is, can feel the suggestion of muscle underneath his thick hoodie sleeves, can feel his mind fog with the smell of lemongrass radiating off of him, can feel something _good_ , something that’s distinctly _not_ gut-wrenching anxiety, but has the same debilitating effect.

Killua goes stiff as a board, red as a particularly troubled tomato.

“Thank you!” Gon laughs, loud and bright like morning church bells. “You’re the _best_!”

Killua is torn between smiling at the praise and schooling his face into a frown - the result is a teetering half-grin that he notices Kurapika trying to hide a laugh at.

“Crisis averted,” Leorio declares, smiling, but Killua isn’t so sure.

 

* * *

 

Killua walks back into the building on shaky legs, feeling an uncomfortable cocktail of pleasure and dread all blended together in his stomach. He makes it back to his locker and enters his combination to collect his books, ignoring the phantom of Gon’s touch still lingering over his shoulders and on his cheek, when suddenly his phone vibrates against his thigh.

He unlocks it in a daze. He has a message from Alluka.

_I heard from Komugi that you and Freecss have been talking??_

Killua blinks in disbelief. His own sister. God dammit.

His thoughts are interrupted when his phone buzzes again, a new text popping up on screen to join the first.

_Bro, are you selling out?!?! :0_

Killua takes a deep, steadying breath, slams his locker shut, and resists the urge to bang both his phone and his head against the wall.

 

* * *

 

 

They take the bus to gym. Together. Gon makes up for Killua’s awkwardness by talking himself, telling stories about Leorio and Kurapika and him and asking mundane questions - if Killua prefers waffles or pancakes (“Waffles.”), what Killua’s favorite season is (“Summer.”), if Killua watched that one movie with the thing that Gon can’t remember right now but he _promises_ is really cool (“I’ll...check it out?”).

All in all it’s peaceful. Killua finds himself laughing - he’s always laughing when he’s with Gon. When they step onto the mat, he laughs even more; at the way Gon tries to do a handstand and tips over, at the way his tongue peeks out of his mouth when he concentrates on doing his stretches, at his megawatt grin just before they start sparring; before he darts forward and makes the first move, like he always does.

Killua is quick and light on his feet, always has been. Gon is, too, but there’s firmness to his movements, a level of certainty in every footfall, that betrays raw power as his strength, not the nimble technique Killua uses to his advantage.

Not that Killua doesn’t have brawn, too. It’s just that he prefers not to overexert himself if it’s not necessary.

Gon makes that difficult for him, though. He pushes into Killua’s space, so close that his humid breath ghosts over Killua’s red cheek, provoking him, forcing him to push back. It’s exhilarating… but they have work to do.

“Hey, Gon,” Killua breathes, dropping low to the floor and ducking under one of Gon’s kicks. He swishes to the side and darts forward, grabbing the wide straps of Gon’s tank and swinging his leg behind Gon’s calf so he can make him collapse to the mat. It doesn’t work; Gon’s stance is too firm, and Killua has to duck under Gon’s arm and jump several steps back to avoid being put in a headlock. Recovering, he huffs, “Nomenclature of alkanes,” his chest rising and falling quickly.

Gon gives him a confused look, cocking his head to the side as he heaves. Killua uses his distraction to his advantage, rushing forward and trying his earlier move again - successfully, this time. Gon is flat on his back by Killua’s feet in a matter of seconds. Killua snickers, triumphantly planting one foot on Gon’s chest and crossing his arms. He smirks. Gon narrows his eyes at him, annoyed. “What about it?” Gon asks gruffly. He stares at Killua’s foot pinning him down, grabs Killua’s ankle, and yanks. Killua lands flat on his ass.

They both snort a laugh. “D’you remember what the first four members of the series are called?” Killua asks, jumping back up onto his feet. Gon’s hand is still around his ankle, though, so he doesn’t get far. He manages to land in a semi-graceful somersault, rolling out of Gon’s grasp a few feet away and into a fighting stance. Gon rises, fists poised defensively. His determined expression falters.

“Uhh,” he says, “The first one’s… Methane?”

“Good,” Killua says, nodding curtly. “Do you know the formula for it?” Cautiously, he makes his way over to Gon. Gon meets him halfway. They circle each other like hungry sharks.

Gon wrinkles his nose. “H4C?” he tries. Killua lunges, jabbing him in the stomach with his knuckles. The contact is wobbly - Gon jumps back just in time. He sticks his tongue out at Killua, patting the spot Killua had hit. Killua laughs.

“Close,” he says, hand teetering in the air. Gon sighs. “It’s CH4. Know why it’s the first in the series?”

Gon shrugs helplessly before sliding back into Killua’s space and nearly elbowing him in the ribs. Killua leans back just far enough to dodge that, countering it with a kick in Gon’s side. Gon’s foot pivots; he avoids the brunt of Killua’s blow. “Because,” he starts, but gets cut off by another kick, aimed higher this time; he blocks it with his forearm, “Is it because of the - the carbohydrates?”

Killua makes a face. “You’re close again,” he says slowly, the trajectory of his left hook thrown off by the back of Gon’s hand under his wrist, “but no cigar.” Killua pivots. He elbows Gon in the side, making use of the opening created by Gon’s lifted arm, but his stance is shaky - Gon sweeps his leg. Killua makes a last minute grab for the front of Gon’s shirt, and they both come crashing down onto the sweaty mat. They breathe for a moment, tired and yet buzzing with energy.

“It’s because of the number of carbons,” Killua heaves, wiping his damp bangs out of his forehead. “Methane has one carbon, so it’s the first. Next?”

Gon is face down on the mat, his arm thrown over Killua’s chest haphazardly. Accidentally. When Killua turns to inspect his face, he sees that it’s squished unattractively against the floor. Killua snorts. It’s sort of comical.

“Umm…” Gon trails off hoarsely, visibly wracking his brain. “Propane?”

“You skipped one,” Killua informs, still catching his breath.

“Ah!” Gon exclaims in realization. “Ethane!”

Killua rolls over, propping himself up on one elbow and grinning. “Right!” he says enthusiastically. He ignores the way Gon’s sweaty arm is still draped over him and presses on. “And the formula?”

Gon’s flushed face scrunches in concentration. His response is a half-muffled “C2H5?”

Killua scoots closer. “Almost!” he urges.

Gon lifts his upper body off the floor, both elbows propping him up. The stretch of Killua’s back where his arm had been before feels cold now, but Killua has other things to worry about. “C2H6?” Gon tries loudly and Killua nods emphatically.

“So Propane is…?” he starts, looking at Gon expectantly.

Gon goes rigid in focus. “C3H8!”

“Yes!”

Gon brightens and shifts closer. “A-And the next one’s Butane, right?” he asks. “Right, Killua?”

Their shoulders touch. They’re breathing the same air. “That’s right!” His eyes are wide - he feels something similar to what he felt when Alluka rehearsed her biology presentation; relief and, in this case oddly, pride. He has the bizarre urge to ruffle Gon’s spiky hair.

Gon’s eyes get so big they look like they might pop out. “C4H10!” he shouts and Killua tackles him.

They laugh as they roll around on the mat, wrestling each other and taking turns getting pinned to the floor. Killua gets several rug burns ( _Mat burns?_ ) and even more bruises, but Gon doesn’t look any better. They spend an hour blocking kicks and redirecting punches while Killua drills Gon on more chemistry stuff.

He may have misjudged Gon a little. Before they had started talking, Killua had figured he was just a dumb jock, albeit a friendly one. But Gon isn’t _stupid_. He just learns differently. Killua gets that now, and he’s proud of himself for being able to explain things in a way Gon can understand.

When they leave the gym, Killua has that same burning feeling he had the day before, deep in his chest. They exchange numbers before they part ways. Gon texts him as soon as they’re out of each other’s sight.

**hey killua!! thanks for today, you really helped me a lot!!!**

Killua chuckles to himself warmly, knees pressed against the back of the bus seat in front of him as he settles against the window.

_no big deal. let me know if you need anything else._

**ok!!!**

**oh, killua!!**

_?_

**there’s this really cute dog walking in front of me, wanna see??**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for this chapter: i'm just a kid - simple plan
> 
> listen. i havent had a chemistry class since the 9th grade ok. i dont remember shit. for all i know everything discussed in this fic could be utter bullshit. i wouldnt know. 
> 
> this is probably the last time i update before i leave for europe on monday. I'm coming back on the 28th so the next chapter will be out a few days after that probably. hope you stick around!
> 
> anyway thanks for reading! come talk to me on tumblr @voidfeesh or check out my art @luftballons99


	3. Get Punched For The Love Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s okay,” Alluka says, shrugging and playing with the hem of her frilly skirt. “So they ignore me - whatever. It’s better this way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for this chapter: the love club - lorde

They don’t call Alluka for dinner. Killua knew they wouldn’t, but it still makes him angry.

Once a month, the Zoldycks sit down and have a meal together as a family. They make time in between hit jobs and bargains and poker game negotiations to play house; play family; play love. It’s an unconvincing act - the cast doesn’t really seem to give a shit, besides Killua’s mother.

But nobody calls Alluka to join them onstage.

“It’s okay,” she says, shrugging and playing with the hem of her frilly skirt. Their mother used to lose her mind whenever she saw Alluka dressed like this, like the girl she really is. She would throw dishes and scream and claw with her overlong acrylic fingernails. Now it’s like Alluka isn’t even there. The rest of the family, besides Killua, plays along. They don’t talk about Alluka. They don’t think about her. “So they ignore me - whatever. It’s better this way.”

Killua sits down next to her on her bed, frustratedly grabbing a fistful of her pink sheets. “They don’t know how good they have it,” he mutters angrily, “Having you. They don’t - they don’t  _ deserve _ \- Who do they think they  _ are _ \- “

“Brother,” Alluka sighs, resting a gentle, calming hand on Killua’s shoulder. “I know.”

Killua simmers. Of course she knows. Why is he lecturing  _ her  _ about this?

It’s just - It’s just  _ unfair _ .

Killua huffs. He hooks his arm around Alluka’s shoulders, pulling her in close and kissing her forehead. Her arms wrap around his waist, she nuzzles his shoulder.

“What about you?” she asks worriedly. “Father’s still out of town, but… but Illumi - “

“Yeah,” Killua says thickly, holding Alluka a little tighter. He swallows. “I’ll be okay.”

Alluka slumps against Killua’s chest. He pets the top of her head, breathes in her strawberry shampoo. “Sometimes,” she says carefully, voice small, like she’s afraid she’ll say the wrong thing, as if there’s a single thought in her head that Killua  _ doesn’t  _ want to hear, “I wish they ignored you, too.”

Killua laughs dryly. He falls backwards onto Alluka’s mattress, bringing her down with him, and stares up at the ceiling. 

“I wish that, too,” he says.

They’re old enough now to know that this - what their family does, outside of the house and, worse, within - isn’t normal. None of this is normal. None of this is how it’s supposed to be, Killua knows. It  _ can’t _ be. Even if he’s not sure how things  _ should _ be, he knows they have to be better than this. He knows Alluka deserves better than this. 

He kisses her forehead again as dread settles in his stomach, makes his bones heavy. When Tsubone knocks on Alluka’s door to give him - him  _ specifically _ , not him and Alluka - a five minute warning for dinner, he closes his eyes. Alluka squeezes his hand.

“It’s okay,” she says, though she sounds as unconvinced as Killua feels. “You’ve done this before. You can do this again.”

Killua sighs, squeezing Alluka’s hand back. He’s about to open his mouth to speak, to reassure her that he’s fine even though he’s not, but his phone vibrating in his pocket distracts him. He blinks, pulling it out and unlocking it, revealing an onslaught of messages from Gon. Despite everything, warmth spreads through his chest. He doesn’t notice that Alluka is peeking at his screen over his shoulder until she speaks.

“Are you  _ texting Freecss _ ?” she asks in disbelief, grabbing Killua’s phone and squinting at it. She rubs her eyes for good measure. Killua swipes his phone back, face hot.

“I tutor him now,” Killua says coolly and Alluka gasps, “and we went to this mixed martial arts place after school today - “

“Oh my god,” Alluka says, hands framing her excited face.

“No, see, shut up,” Killua bites, “It’s - It’s not a big deal.” He sweeps his thumb across the screen and punches in his passcode, shoving Alluka away when she tries to peek at it.

 

**hey killua!!**

**i found these berries in the woods by my house??**

**[Attachment]**

**they look good. not poisonous or anything**

**oH NO NO THEYRE BAD I CAN CONFRIM VERY BAD OH NO EW**

**bleeeehhhhhhhh!!!!!!**

 

Killua smothers a laugh under his hand. Alluka gives him a surprised look. Killua clears his throat.

Alluka tilts her head to the side, eyeing him curiously. “So,” she says slowly, trying to be casual about it, but the lip caught between her smiling teeth betrays her interest, “are you guys, like, friends now?”

Killua pointedly looks away, eyebrows screwed together. He stares down at his phone screen. “I don’t  _ know _ , Alluka,” he says finally, frustratedly. What does Gon think, anyway? Is he gushing to his family about how he made a new friend right now?

Killua can’t imagine telling his family  _ anything _ . But they always seem to just  _ know _ , anyway. 

If… 

If Illumi found out about Gon - 

_ No. He won’t. _

“Oh,” Alluka says, deflating in realization. Killua doesn’t need to hear her say any more to know she had the same thought as him.

Their oldest brother is… 

It’s complicated.

Killua tries to hold back a shiver, unsuccessfully. They go silent. After a moment, Alluka puts her hand back on Killua’s shoulder, warm and firm. He meets her eyes. She looks calm now - stable, mature. Everything Killua is supposed to be when shit hits the fan, but isn’t, what with the way he’s sweating and shaking and his eyes can’t seem to focus.

“It’ll be okay,” she tells him sincerely. Deep down Killua knows that’s bullshit, but the secure palm on his shoulder, her clear, familiar eyes make him want to believe her anyway. He wonders if his presence is a comfort to her the way hers is to him. “Eat fast.” She offers him a lopsided grin.

“Eat fast,” Killua repeats, sighing. This is no good. He needs to suck it up. Alluka’s his baby sister. She shouldn’t have to be strong for him, for  _ anyone _ . “Okay.” He smiles at her crookedly and gathers her into his arms. “Thanks, squirt.”

Alluka hugs him back. “Come back here afterwards,” she orders. “It’s boring down here all alone.”

Killua laughs half-heartedly. “Sure,” he says.

“If things get tense, pretend to look into the camera like on  _ The Office _ ,” Alluka suggests, and that tears a slightly more genuine laugh from Killua’s lungs.

“Right,” Killua chuckles. He squeezes her one more time before reluctantly getting up. He waves to her on his way out the door. He takes a deep breath, looking up at the stairwell leading up into the living room. His legs shake. The first few times he tries to take a step, they don’t budge, his toes curling tightly in his socks. 

_ Eat fast. _

He steels himself, jaw tight, lips stiff, and climbs.

 

* * *

 

It fucking sucks, to put it simply. 

His mother talks through wine soaked lips and teeth the entire time, cheeks red, eyes glassy. If Killua were to drag his silver fork down the front of his plate so hard it created vertical grooves in the porcelain, it would surely produce a more pleasant sound than the voice of Kikyo Zoldyck.

“It’s such a shame,” she sighs shrilly, “that your father couldn’t make it home tonight.” Killua could not possibly disagree more. She rests her chin in the white palm of her hand, drumming her fake nails against her jaw. “He has very important business, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

Killua’s expression is trained into neutrality as he nods silently, cutting his steak as quickly as he can without making it obvious that he’s itching to leave. He glances up and watches Milluki kiss their mother’s ass with a plastic smile, waxing poetic about how stunning their parents’ accomplishments are, probably buttering her up so he can ask for money or something. He leans across the table, obscuring Killua’s view of Kalluto, the youngest of the Zoldyck children, who sits dutifully and silently at the corner of the table, right next to mother. Killua doesn’t really remember the last time he’s spoken to him and feels guilty for his apathy at the thought.

Kalluto is small, not just in stature but in presence, and quiet in both speech and movement. Killua spent his younger years thinking Kalluto was some kind of ghost - he would never talk and he would always be half-hidden behind their mother’s leg, clutching her skirt protectively like it was the only thing grounding him, the only thing tethering him to the real world. And he has these eyes, beautiful and vacant, that worried Killua at first rather than unsettling him. He’s got other worries now.

Kalluto eats in silence, not breathing a word the entire evening. Every now and then, Kikyo will reach over and “fix” his neatly clipped bangs or pat his back to signal that he needs to sit up straighter or wipe an invisible stain from the corner of his mouth with her finger. She’s always seen him as an accessory; a doll. There might even be some truth to that description.

But Killua has no room to judge him for it. If Kalluto is a mannequin, Killua is a chess piece. He can’t say which is worse.

Killua waits until he is spoken to to open his mouth, but luckily he isn’t spoken to often. His mother pretends to be interested in how school is going, how his day was, if he’s enjoying his dinner. Killua doesn’t meet her eyes, ever. He just stares down at his plate, offering one-word answers and tapping his finger against his thigh impatiently. Milluki scoffs, calls him a disrespectful brat, but Kikyo shushes him, telling him to be nice.

Killua is never sure if he’s his parents’ favorite, or if everyone in his family hates him. He’s beginning to think there is little difference between the two.

He eats, keeping his eyes on his almost-empty plate. If he’s lucky - if there is a flicker of hope somewhere in the sick, cosmic joke his life has turned into - maybe the evening will pass without incident. He shoves the last bit of his steak into his mouth and is too impatient to chew properly before swallowing. It feels like a brick sliding down his throat, past his chest, and sits in his stomach like wet cement. He breathes quietly, taking a few moments to gather his courage so he can raise his head and ask if he can be excused.

The grandfather clock in the corner of the room strikes seven. Killua looks up.

He can deal with Kalluto - there’s practically nothing  _ to  _ deal with. He can deal with Milluki, who’s loud and violent and  _ annoying _ , but not scary. He can even deal with Kikyo, as much as she unsettles him. It’s okay. He knows how to talk to them all; how to deal with their silences or outbursts or mood swings.

Illumi is different. Illumi has always been different.

Because as much as Killua hates the rest of his family, besides Alluka, he knows how to maneuver past the abuse for the most part; knows the right inflections and vocabulary to get him out of trouble most of the time. Killua is good at keeping his head down. But none of that ever works with Illumi.

Killua looks up, and Illumi is staring straight at him - straight into him - unblinking and curious, as if he’s anticipating whatever move Killua will make next. Killua wants to look away, but it’s too late; they’ve made eye contact, he’s in the spotlight of this tragic production, and Illumi is his ever attentive audience. Illumi  _ always _ knows what he’s up to, he can see right through Killua  _ easily _ . Killua jumps through hoops to keep his secrets secret, to keep the vulnerable parts of himself hidden, but Illumi is always thinking one step ahead; is always patiently watching for Killua’s every step, despite having predicted it from the beginning, as if it’s all a game and he just  _ loves  _ seeing his baby brother play right into his cold, pale hands.

Killua swallows dryly, fingernails sharp in the skin of his trembling knees. He can’t stop staring into Illumi’s pitfall eyes. 

Illumi’s face is completely blank, betraying nothing. Killua has not seen him eat anything all evening, but the plate in front of him is clean, as if there hadn’t been any food on it to begin with. 

Illumi stares, hands flat against the crisp tablecloth, back straight. Killua can’t help but stare back, as much as he wants to bolt, wants to be swallowed up by the ground, because even heavy layers of wormy soil and dirt are less suffocating than Illumi’s presence.

Killua swallows again. Illumi finally,  _ finally _ blinks and Killua’s eyes immediately flit down to his plate. He needs to suppress the sigh of relief threatening his lungs. He feels like he’s been wrung dry, as pliable as a dishtowel in Illumi’s grasp.  _ I need to leave. _

He turns to his mother quickly, already opening his mouth to speak.

And then his phone buzzes in his pocket.

_ His phone fucking buzzes in his pocket. _

Everyone else is silent; Killua can feel his mother seething at the head of the table. The sound of his phone seems to echo in the large dining room, vibrating the walls so violently Killua’s afraid the whole house might come tumbling down on top of him, punishing him because how could he  _ do this _ \- how could he be this  _ fucking stupid _ \- 

“Kil,” Illumi says, voice clear, as his head tilts to the side in mock confusion, almost a perfect ninety degree angle. “Don’t you know it’s rude to have your phone on at dinner?”

_ That’s bullshit _ , Killua’s hectic mind reels,  _ That’s fucking bullshit, you and dad leave the table to take calls all the fucking time. This isn’t fair, it’s not - why do you always get to -  _

He scratches angry red streaks into the skin of his knees, trying to keep his breathing under control.  _ I’m gonna be in  _ so  _ much trouble. Fuck. Fuck! _

“You’re brother’s right, Kil,” Kikyo adds, voice high and sharp, banging her fist against the table just hard enough to make her plate and silverware clatter. Killua braces himself for shouting. “ _ Why  _ do you always act out like this?” Milluki clicks his tongue and shakes his head at Killua in disapproval. Kalluto keeps eating, unconcerned.

Killua grits his teeth behind his closed lips, unfocused eyes staring down at his plate as he nods. His mother goes from thinking Killua can do no wrong to making him out to be some sort of monster -  _ all _ of them do. Everything Killua does is a fucking gamble.

His head spins. Illumi is still staring at him from across the table, unaffected by the dispute. “Kil and I will have a chat after dinner,” Illumi decides evenly. Killua’s heart plummets. He feels faint. “No need to worry, mother.”

Killua doesn’t listen anymore after that. He wracks his brain for excuses - anything that will keep Illumi from thinking he’s made friends.

He  _ hasn’t _ made friends. Gon is just - Gon’s an acquaintance. A mouthy acquaintance who won’t stop texting him about dogs and miscellaneous plants. That’s not Killua’s fault. 

_ It’s… It’s not my fault. It’s  _ not _. _

When Killua looks back up, Illumi is the only one left at the table. The clock ticks in the corner; too slowly - or maybe his heart is just beating too fast.

Illumi’s stare is unrelenting. Killua keeps his head down.

“Look at me,” Illumi says. Killua flinches.

Illumi sighs, almost exasperated. “Kil,” he starts, “you know the rules, don’t you?”

_ Cheat. Steal. Backstab; literally, if necessary. _

And… 

“Trust no one,” Killua says hoarsely under his breath, his whole body trembling like he’s about to burst at the seams. “Except… except the family.” His white fingers clutch at the hard seat of his chair. He goes cold when the room seems to darken - Illumi is standing, now, his shadow long and looming over Killua, surrounding him. Illumi’s shoes clack against the hardwood floor as he walks, perfectly in sync with the ticking clock. Killua’s eyes sting, so he squeezes them shut.

He doesn’t need to look up to know when Illumi is standing next to him; over him. Most people radiate heat. Illumi seems to radiate ice. Killua shivers.

“That’s right. I drilled that into you since you were old enough to understand.” Illumi’s voice is close now; unbearably close, and deathly quiet. “Family is all you can trust. You know that, don’t you?”

_ Do I really  _ **_know_ ** _ anything? _

“Yes,” Killua answers hollowly.

“You’re going to take over the family business one day,” Illumi goes on. “You’re a bright boy, Kil. Don’t waste your time with  _ friends _ .” He practically  _ spits _ the last word - or, at least, he comes as close to spitting as someone as unfeeling as Illumi can get. “You don’t need them. You just need  _ us _ .” Killua gulps. “Remember, Kil, that blood is thicker than water.”

“I’m not - he isn’t - “ he stutters defensively, shrinking in on himself, shoulders curling forward. “He isn’t my friend.”

“ _ Who _ ,” Illumi says with an edge of impatience. It’s enough to make Killua want to cry; he can barely keep himself from whimpering.

“N-N-No one,” Killua forces out, thoughts swirling helplessly - god, he hopes whatever he’s rushing out holds up. “There’s this guy who - who always forgets the homework. He’s probably asking to copy mine or something.”

The silence that follows is agony. Killua shivers, hunched over in his seat and waiting for some kind of reaction -  _ any  _ kind, Killua doesn’t care if Illumi beats the shit out of him like he used to, he just needs to  _ know _ . It’s the not knowing that kills him; not being able to see what’s coming that makes him so  _ afraid _ . It’s the way Illumi’s face stays so fucking cold, so emotionless, like the way he’s torturing him means  _ nothing _ , that makes Killua have to choke down his sobs.

“Alright,” Illumi says suddenly. The sound of his voice makes Killua jolt. “Just don’t make me have to go through your phone again, Kil.”

“I - I won’t,” Killua assures him, breath shuddering.

A few moments of lip gnawing and cold sweat pass before Killua listens to Illumi’s footsteps disappear up the stairs. He waits a few minutes for good measure before taking a breath. He gasps for air, forehead thunking against the table as he clutches at his chest, lungs burning. He cries silently. The clock keeps ticking. His phone keeps buzzing in his pocket.

 

* * *

 

Killua trudges back towards Alluka’s room, heavy but hollow. He opens the door wordlessly, not responding to her happy greeting, and collapses into her bed. He breathes, facedown on her downy comforter.

“Oh, no,” she says grimly and Killua shuts his eyes. The mattress dips beside him. Alluka wraps an arm around his shoulders. “I’m sorry, brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot stress this enough but i fucking Hate the zoldycks with every fiber of my being. anyway in this fic i guess theyre like mafia?? yeah smthn like that. dont question it. shut up already.
> 
> anyway yeah this one's kinda short but w/e. i'm posting this from my phone which feels Gross and i'm still in switzerland with limited wifi so everything is weird atm. also its almost midnight and my eyes burn.
> 
> ANYWAY. hope you liked this chapter, kudos and comments are always appreciated. i'll post again in like two weeks or so? maybe earlier, we'll see


	4. From Several Rooms Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jan-ken-gon: do you think  
> jan-ken-gon: do you think he doesn’t want to be friends?
> 
> Kurapikachu: Maybe Leorio is right for a change and he really is dying.
> 
> leoreo: thank you  
> leoreo: also, fuck you  
> leoreo: gon, don’t worry. he’s not dying.
> 
> Gon sighs. He knows that. He isn’t as dumb as his friends make him out to be sometimes.
> 
> leoreo: he probably just hates you
> 
> Gon scowls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love writing group chats

It’s not like Gon’s  _ clingy _ . 

No, really, it’s not. And it’s not like Killua’s  _ ignoring  _ him, either.

He’s just busy, that’s all. Gon gets that. Well, he gets it the same way he gets that the sky is blue, but if he were pressed for an answer as to  _ why _ , he’d come up short. But  _ still _ . He - He gets it.

Nonetheless… 

Gon groans, tossing his phone next to him on his bed and collapsing on his back, staring at the ceiling like the solution to his dilemma is in the chipped paint. After a few charged minutes of glaring he concludes that it isn’t.

Maybe Killua just doesn’t go on his phone very often? Gon’s usually the same way, but it’s been  _ hours _ since Killua responded to his messages. And Gon  _ knows  _ he’s seen them. He huffs, then groans again, then kicks his legs in the air in frustration.

“Gon,” Mito-san calls from downstairs. “I’m starting dinner! Gonna need you to set the table pretty soon!” Distantly, Gon can hear the clattering of pots and pans.

“Okay!” Gon hollers back, hopping out of bed and lolling his head around to work out the tension created by him staring down at his phone for so long. He’s about to exit his room and head downstairs when suddenly, his phone vibrates among his sheets.

Without thinking about how desperate he must be, he dives for it. He drops it a few times in his urgent scramble to punch in his passcode, but freezes up immediately when he sees who his messages are from.

 

 **leoreo:** do you guys think horses have dreams?

 

**Kurapikachu:** ...

**Kurapikachu:** Leorio, your intellect astounds me.

 

**leoreo:** why do i feel like you’re insulting me.

 

**Kurapikachu:** Oh. Because I am.

**Kurapikachu:** There you go, astounding me with your intellect yet again. You’re on a roll today.

 

 **leoreo:** and *you’re* on the rag today!

 

**Kurapikachu:** Sexist.

 

**leoreo:** shut your dumb little mouth. dumbhead stupid person

**leoreo:** smurf

 

**Kurapikachu:** Keebler elf.

**Kurapikachu:** Keebler elf with dumb John Lennon glasses and who is also stupid.

 

**leoreo:** why am i a keebler elf

**leoreo:** like if you’re gonna “insult” me by calling me a delicious snack, just call me an oreo. it's in my goddamn name.

 

**Kurapikachu:** But I like oreos.

**Kurapikachu:** Whether or not I like you is a far more complicated matter.

 

**leoreo:** you take that back you child of a bitch

 

“ _ Ugh _ .” Maybe Kurapika has been right all these years. Maybe this groupchat was a mistake. Gon crawls backwards on his bed until he hits the wall, slumping against it and sighing in defeat.

“Gon!” Mito-san shouts up the stairwell leading to his room, “Come set the table!”

“One  _ minute _ !” Gon yells back distractedly, not tearing his eyes away from his screen.

 

 **jan-ken-gon:** geez do you guys have to fight about everything??

**Kurapikachu:** Ah, Gon, you’re here.

 

**leoreo:** gon do you think horses have dreams?

 

Gon blinks in confusion at first, then considers.

 

 **jan-ken-gon:** do you mean dreams like they see things in their sleep or do you mean dreams like they have hopes for the future?

 

A pause.

 

**Kurapikachu:** Oh my god.

 

**leoreo:** yes.

**leoreo:** just yes.

 

 **jan-ken-gon:** well i dont know!!!

 **jan-ken-gon:** i sort of have other things to worry about!!!!!!!

 

 **Kurapikachu:** You? Worried?

 

**leoreo:** is somebody dying?

 

Gon’s face pinches in exasperation. This is  _ serious _ .

 

 **jan-ken-gon:** ugh no!!!

 

He pauses before typing the next part, fingers hesitant, cheeks bizarrely pink. The text cursor blinks at him mockingly, ticking by the countless seconds it takes him to gather the courage to continue. In the end he takes a deep breath and just types without too much forethought.

 

 **jan-ken-gon:** it’s about killua

 

**leoreo:** oho

**leoreo:** the plot thickens

 

**Kurapikachu:** Do tell, Gon.

 

Alright. Maybe not  _ enough _ forethought.

 

 **jan-ken-gon:** he hasn’t responded to any of my texts in *hours*

 **jan-ken-gon:** do you think

 **jan-ken-gon:** do you think he doesn’t want to be friends?

 

**Kurapikachu:** Maybe Leorio is right for a change and he really is dying.

 

**leoreo:** thank you

**leoreo:** also, fuck you 

**leoreo:** gon, don’t worry. he’s not dying.

 

Gon sighs. He knows  _ that _ . He isn’t as dumb as his friends make him out to be sometimes.

 

**leoreo:** he probably just hates you

 

Gon scowls.

 

 **jan-ken-gon:** wow you jerks are actually no help at all!! >:0

 

He’s about to shut off his phone altogether and resort to slamming his pillow against the wall when Leorio texts back.

 

**leoreo:** ok but real talk

**leoreo:** it’s probably nothing, gon. maybe he just forgot to reply. it happens to kurapika all the time

 

**Kurapikachu:** Sure it does.

 

**leoreo:** shut up

**leoreo:** why are you so upset anyway, gon? you barely even use your phone

 

**Kurapikachu:** Suspicious.

 

Gon sighs, resting his chin in his palm and typing one-handed. It’s true, this is… sort of unusual. But Killua is just… He seems cool. And he’s fun to hang out with. It makes sense that Gon wants to hear from him! They’re making this way too big a deal.

Or is  _ Gon  _ the one blowing things out of proportion? He’s not sure anymore.

 

 **jan-ken-gon:** bleh!!! whatever

 **jan-ken-gon:** i’ll talk to you guys later

 

**leoreo:** hold that thought

 

 **> >> leoreo renamed the chat** " **horse dreams"**

 

**Kurapikachu:** As God is my witness I will leave this fucking chat.

 

**leoreo:** do it pussy nobody likes you

 

Gon silences his phone and slips it under his pillow. With a heavy sigh, he rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling again. After a while, he closes his eyes. He can hear Mito-san bustling around in the kitchen downstairs with the promise of a delicious meal. Gon feels a little better thinking about that and rests his warm palms over his belly, drumming his fingers against it lazily.

It’s always just been him and Mito-san. She’s the one who held his hand when he took his first steps, walking him up a grassy hill and gathering him up into her arms when they reached the top, despite the fact that he had just proven he was capable of standing on his own. She’s the one who caught him after each fledgling fall, both metaphorical and literal, whether he was down and confused and needed help or he would overestimate the grip of his determined fingers against the bark of a tree and tumble back to earth. She’s the one who dressed him, fed him, kept him warm when it was cold, kept him happy when things were bad. And she still does.

Gon thinks about her and everything she's done for him often. He thinks about her when Leorio steals the homemade lunches she packs him. He thinks about her when he comes home to fresh, crisp bedsheets and dinner in the fridge while she’s still working. He thinks about her when his classmates wonder what his dad does for a living.

Gon tries not to think about his dad too much.

He turns on his side, keeping his eyes closed. There’s a distinct lump in his pillow where his phone is hiding just underneath, but as uncomfortable as it is, he resists reaching for it. He sighs for what feels like the millionth time that day - Gon hasn’t sighed this much in a while. He curls up, hugging his knees.

Killua will write back eventually. He’s just busy right now, that’s all. He’ll write back as soon as he’s done doing...whatever it is he’s doing.

“ _ Gon! _ ” Mito-san barks indignantly, and Gon can just picture her rolling up her sleeves as she gets ready to stomp up the stairs, “if you’re not down here in  _ thirty seconds _ \- “

“ _ Ah! _ ” Gon shouts, shooting up out of bed and zipping out of his room, “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

 

* * *

“So,” Mito-san says, piling steaming white rice onto Gon’s plate, “How was school?”

Gon slumps in his chair with a desolate sigh, his chin resting on the edge of the table. Mito-san arches an eyebrow at him. “ _ Bleh _ ,” he says simply, face pinched.

“Calculus?” Mito-san guesses, setting down the spoon she’d used for the rice and reaching for the ladle sticking out of the pot of curry in the center of the table. She fills the empty space on Gon’s plate so that the food almost covers the flowery pattern on the rim and offers it to him. He takes it and sets it down weakly.

“No,” he mumbles, grabbing his spoon and mixing the rice and curry together like wet cement.

“Biology,” Mito-san tries again, sure of herself this time. Gon groans as she fixes her own plate and takes a seat across from him.

“ _ No _ ,” he denies again, pointedly stabbing his curry with his spoon.

Mito-san gives him a look. “Just how many classes are you failing?” She crosses her arms.

“I’m not failing  _ that _ many,” Gon argues defensively. “I managed to get C’s in most of the classes I’m bad at last semester.”

Mito-san softens. “So what is it?” she asks him, filling her spoon with the perfect rice-to-curry ratio and raising it to her lips. “What happened?”

Gon shoves his spoon into his mouth and exhales deeply. “It’s nothing,” he says evenly and decides to focus on eating. 

And it really  _ is _ nothing. He’s making this way more complicated than it has to be. Usually he isn’t the type to overthink things, but Killua is just…  _ Ugh _ , Gon doesn’t even know what it is that’s bothering him so much.  _ Whatever _ .

Mito-san eyes him skeptically, but lets it go. She tells him about work and Gon is grateful for the distraction. Well, that and he genuinely wants to know how her day was - if it was good, or if she’s been stressed and he should start helping out with laundry and dinner more. He really wants to pull his weight - Mito-san is a single mom, things can’t be easy for her.

Their phone rings just then, and Mito-san drops her spoon, making bits of rice and curry splash up from her plate at the impact, and groans as she sits up and shoves her chair to the side so she can get to the kitchen. Gon smothers a laugh at the barely contained fury wrinkling her face. When her head whips around to glare at him for it, he passes it off as a cough, patting his chest for effect. When she turns back around and picks up the phone, he goes back to eating.

“Kite?” Mito-san prompts, her expression smoothing out. Gon perks up at the mention of that name. They haven’t heard from Kite in a while - his job has him travelling around a lot. “This is a surprise. What hemisphere are you in?”

She winks at Gon. He chuckles through a mouthful of curry.

“Well, last time I asked that, you said you weren’t even sure,” Mito-san laughs after a pause, resting her free hand on her hip. Gon watches her body language, trying to guess what Kite is saying on the other line. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t lost and confused somewhere in the jungle again.”

Mito-san pauses, seeming to listen. Gon regards her intently. Suddenly her smile freezes on her lips, her eyes lose their mirthful glint. She stares at the kitchen countertop quizzically. Gon wrinkles his brow. His chewing slows.

Mito-san chuckles, but it’s forced. She makes brief eye contact with Gon, but looks away when he mouths  _ What? _ at her.

“What about him?” she asks quietly, muscles tense. Her loosely curled fingers resting on the countertop suddenly contract. Gon swallows. Mito-san turns her back to him. Her hand grips the edge of the countertop.

“No,” she says tightly. Gon worries she might break off a chunk of their counter and gets up from his chair. “No, he can’t just - “

Gon hesitantly makes his way into the kitchen. He walks up behind Mito-san cautiously. She flinches away from him when he places a hand on her shoulder. Suddenly, she seems so small. Gon has been taller than her for a while now, but she has never seemed small to him before.

Mito-san shakes her head slowly, but not at Gon. Her eyes are looking through him like he’s not even there, somewhere far away. Horror is etched into the wrinkles between her brows. 

“What’s going on?” Gon whispers in concern. Mito-san raises a silencing hand at him while he can hear Kite’s placating voice, words muffled and unintelligible, over the phone.

“Kite,  _ no _ ,” Mito-san says indignantly, voice high and thin, as if she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “He has  _ no right _ \- “

Kite’s voice grows in volume. Gon thinks he can make out the words  _ I’m just the messenger  _ and  _ Gon’s choice _ over the phone. He sends Mito-san an urgent look, an unnerving cocktail of curiosity and dread brewing deep inside him. Tears fill her eyes, her lips wobble, but she doesn’t look sad, she looks  _ livid _ .

“How can you  _ say  _ that?!” she barks, banging her fist against the counter so hard Gon  _ swears _ he hears it crack. “Why are you defending - Yes, you  _ are _ !”

Gon rests a timid hand over her fist. Her fingers lace with his, squeezing like she wants to test his blood pressure. Gon feels his own eyes sting. He  _ hates  _ seeing her cry, but he also hates not being told what’s going on.

“You know what?” Mito-san laughs, releasing Gon’s hand and throwing hers up in the air in frustration. “I couldn't give a shit about what that man wants! If he thinks I’m letting him  _ anywhere near _ \- “

“ _ What about what Gon wants?! _ ” Gon hears Kite’s voice interrupt, equally frustrated. 

“Mito-san,” he says quickly, “Give me the phone.”

Mito-san shakes her head. “Go upstairs, Gon.”

“ _ You can’t keep coddling hi -  _ “

Mito-san gapes, outraged. “I’m protecting  _ my son _ !” she roars. Gon takes a step back. “I’m - I’m - “ After a moment Gon can see her anger dissipating and leaving sorrow in its wake. “He’s  _ my _ son.” Tears stream down her red face. 

Kite’s voice is calmer now, soothing, but that’s all Gon knows; he doesn’t speak loud enough for Gon to know what exactly he’s saying. Mito-san sniffles, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She looks  _ really  _ small now. Gon’s heart breaks a little. She nods once, twice, and sighs before the hand she has wrapped around the phone drops to her side. Looking down, she weakly offers Gon the phone.

He sucks in a deep breath, determined, and takes it from her. He presses the phone to his ear. Mito-san sobs quietly. Gon pulls her in, her head resting on his shoulder, his arm curled around hers. 

“Kite,” he says unwaveringly, “is this about dad?”

Gon listens to the static for a few moments. Suddenly, he hears Kite sigh.

“ _ Yes _ ,” he says evenly, always straight to the point. “ _ You see, it’s - I ran into him. _ ” Gon’s breath stops. “ _ Or rather, he came to find me. I’m not sure how he knew where I was or why he - Well, I’ve never truly understood him. _ ” Gon listens intently, hangs onto every word.

Ging Freecss, Gon’s father, dropped off the face of the earth shortly after foisting Gon onto Mito-san. No one knows where he is or what he’s doing. Gon has no memory of him. Doesn’t even know what he looks like. Mito-san has one photo of him with a six month old Gon sleeping on his chest, but Ging’s face is covered by a beat up old hat. Gon’s been told that he looks like him.

“ _ He has a message for you _ ,” Kite says and Gon bites his bottom lip, eyes burning holes through the kitchen window. “ _ A letter. He wants me to deliver it. He’s always been dramatic like that. _ ” Kite chuckles a little, but his heart isn’t really in it. Gon wants to laugh with him, wants to be in on the joke and say  _ Haha, classic Ging _ , but he can’t. Kite knows more about his father than Gon does.

“What does it say?” Gon asks. Mito-san shudders under his arm. He pats her in a way that he hopes is comforting.

“ _ I haven’t opened it _ ,” Kite says simply. “ _ It’s not my place. _ ” He pauses. Gon waits.

“ _ Gon _ ,” he says seriously, “ _ do you want it? _ ”

Gon tenses up. Does he want it? Does he need it? Would it - Would Mito-san be sad if he did?

“ _ If you do _ ,” Kite interrupts his thoughts, “ _ Be sure that you want it because  _ you  _ want it. Whether or not you want to reconnect with your father is your decision. What Mito wants - what Ging wants - is irrelevant. _ ” Gon reminds himself to breathe, tries to keep his heartbeat even. “ _ This is something only you can decide. Do you want this letter? _ ”

Gon would be lying if he said that he’s never thought about his father. He’s never had much to go on - just half-told stories and the ring of his name; the way it felt like a bell in his mouth when he would whisper it to himself at night, wondering - but he’s always been curious. All he knows for sure is that Ging left him, for whatever reason, and that nobody knows where he is. Gon used to think he would come back one day; that he  _ had _ to. That there was no way a parent would willingly leave their child for so long; that, surely, he was just busy. That he would come back when he was done doing whatever it was he was doing. But he never did.

Ging was never in the picture, not really even in the photograph of him Mito-san has. It was like Gon was the only proof that he was real at all.

But now there’s a letter, presumably full of his handwriting. Maybe a wrinkle in the paper from when he nervously thumbed its edge, maybe a smudge of ink from when he ran the side of his hand across the page as he wrote.

Gon’s grip on the phone tightens. “Yes,” he says, still staring out the kitchen window, catching a glimpse of the distant sun lighting the pink sky outside. “Yes, I want the letter.”

Mito-san’s arms wrap around his waist, holding him tight.

Kite pauses for a moment. “ _ Okay _ ,” he says. “ _ I should be back home in a month. Can you wait that long? _ ”

Gon smiles wryly. “Kite,” he says, “I’ve already waited seventeen years.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for this chapter: the run and go - twenty one pilots
> 
> did.........did you sense the parallels....between gon's feeling of abandonment when it comes to his father...and his budding friendship with killua......? because this kid has some fuckin ISSUES let me tell you. he just wants to be loved, somebody give him a hug
> 
> anyway uhh thanks for reading, see you whenever i decide to update next. peace


	5. Cool, Calm, and Collected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m,” Killua starts, still swaying precariously - or is the room the thing that’s spinning? Realization hits him and the corners of his vodka and apple juice-soaked lips quirk into an awed smile. “I’m drunk,” he says, delighted.
> 
> Canary giggles into her cup. “Congratulations,” she says and downs the rest of her drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter got long? i think? i dont know i havent been keeping track just read it

It’s not like he has a choice.

No matter how much Killua likes him, no matter how much he enjoys his company, it’s not - 

It’s just not realistic.

Illumi is on to him. And that is not a position Killua wants to stay in.

Besides, maybe - maybe he’s right. Killua’s made it this long without  _ real _ friends. Sure, he’s known Canary and Ikalgo for a while. Sure, they talk at lunch sometimes and sure, they copy each other’s homework. But that’s it. Killua doesn’t feel drawn to them the way he does to Gon. He doesn’t feel the need to connect with them beyond...whatever casual pseudo-friendship they have. They’re classmates. They go to the same school. That’s all.

But  _ Gon _ … 

Killua just really wants to… to be around him. A  _ lot _ .

And Killua isn’t used to wanting  _ anything _ . So this whole  _ situation _ is a fucking problem.

The logical thing to do would be to get the fuck outta dodge. The logical thing to do would be to forget all about Gon and his weird friends. The logical thing to do would be to bite his tongue and listen to his older brother because he knows best and Killua doesn’t know anything.

But so far, none of Killua’s actions relating to Gon have been logical. 

Logic. Math.  _ Right _ , the task at hand.

“I don’t  _ get  _ this,” Gon groans and yeah, that sounds about right. Fitting that Gon has an aversion to things that make sense. Of course he doesn’t understand. 

Maybe whatever affliction he has is contagious. Killua can’t seem to think or behave rationally, either.  _ Dammit. _

He glances up from his notes. Somehow they had gone weeks without realizing they’re in the same study hall, but they’re making use of it now, huddled in close and rubbing shoulders as they share a calculus textbook. Gon forgot his. Typical.

He looks at Gon, but thinks better of it immediately. The look on his face, his freckles - it’s all too distracting; not at all conducive to learning formulas. For the first time in his life, Killua just wants to get his homework done. He clears his throat.

“Let’s take a break,” he hears himself say by accident, because what the  _ fuck _ , taking a break means - means talking to him about things that  _ matter _ -

Wait, no - things that  _ don’t  _ matter. Things that are completely irrelevant, but do something confusing to Killua’s sanity, anyway.  _ Fuck _ .

“Okay,” Gon sighs, his forehead thunking against the desk. He deflates, somehow different; less excitable than usual. He’s been like this all day, the sun in his eyes clouded over and dull. Killua doesn’t let himself worry, doesn’t reach out, doesn’t ask.

That’s the plan, anyway. But it’s tempting.

So tempting, in fact, that Killua fucking fails miserably.

“You alright?” he asks and cringes at the concern in his voice; at his desire to pat Gon on the head and say  _ There, there _ . What the  _ fuck _ is going on?

Gon sighs, cheek pressed up against his wooden desk, eyebrows scrunched. “Yes,” he says unconvincingly, glaring at the wall behind Killua’s head. Killua sighs and decides to drop it. The last thing he wants is to bother Gon.  _ Or waste my own time trying to keep up an uncomfortable conversation _ , he tells himself, but...

Killua thinks. The negative energy coming from Gon is palpable, thick in the stale library air, and while Killua shouldn’t really cast the first stone when it comes to being in a shit mood, it doesn’t…

It just doesn’t feel right. Seeing Gon like that.

Killua glances off to the side when he says, “Calc is sort of shit, huh.”

Gon huffs. “At least Killua’s good at it,” he mutters, still glaring at the wall like a pouting child.

Killua crosses his arms. He’s just making conversation,  _ geez _ . “Alright,” he says, laughing a little incredulously, “who pissed in your cheerios?”

He looks down at Gon expectantly, watching the boy’s expression go slack in bewilderment. Distantly, he feels a vague sense of relief at seeing the creases between Gon’s eyebrows smooth out. Gon looks up at him and snorts suddenly in puzzled laughter, finally raising his head off the desk. The cheek he’s been resting on is slightly red, like half of him is blushing. Killua files that thought away.

“I’ve never heard that expression before,” he admits. Killua takes quiet pleasure in watching the clouds in Gon’s eyes part, the rays of the sun coloring his irises once again, and likes to think he’s the reason for it. He feels his lips stretch into a hesitant but giddy smile, as they so often do around Gon.

“It’s fitting, huh?” Killua snickers. He pokes Gon’s red left cheek, the flesh warm and soft, and says, “Your face earlier made you look like someone  _ literally _ pissed in your cheerios.”

Gon giggles charmingly and swats Killua’s finger away. He rubs his cheek with his shoulder and smiles so bright something sweet and painful lodges sharply right through Killua’s chest like an arrow. “I’m fine,” Gon insists and this time Killua believes him. “It was just - “

Gon’s own phone cuts him off, vibrating urgently in his pocket. He blinks curiously and fishes it out. Killua suddenly remembers that he never responded to any of Gon’s texts from last night; didn’t even read some of them. Suddenly guilty, he drops his gaze back to his textbook, reading the words but not absorbing them, pretending to be busy.

“Huh,” he hears Gon say after a moment. “Hey, Killua.”

Killua bites his lip. Is Gon gonna bring it up? Did he suddenly remember that Killua was totally ignoring him last night, too?

“What’s up?” Killua asks casually, not looking up from the pages of his book.

“Wanna go to a party?”

“What?” Killua asks, whipping his head around and eyeing Gon quizzically. A chorus of scattered voices around the room shush him in unison and he lowers his head and voice sheepishly. “A party?”

Killua can’t remember the last time he was invited to something. Is there some kind of catch? Is he gonna have to bring money for booze or something? Will there even be booze? What do people even  _ do _ at parties?

Gon just shrugs, carefree as always. “I just got texts from Leorio and Kurapika,” he explains quietly, waving his phone for emphasis. “Someone from APUSH is throwing a party. They’re inviting, like, everyone.”

Killua’s mind reels. He twirls his pen between his fingers, he fidgets in his seat. “Um,” he says, “When?”

“I dunno, I’ll ask,” Gon replies and is about to type out a message to his friends when he suddenly looks up in realization and says, “Wait, I can just add you to the group chat.”

“Group chat,” Killua echoes. Oh god. It was hard enough ignoring texts from just Gon. Now he’s gonna have to dodge messages from Gon’s friends, too.

“Yeah!” Gon says with a smile, unbothered and enthusiastically tapping away at his phone. Soon enough, Killua receives a notification that he has been added to “ **horse dreams** ”.

This is the worst day of his life.

Cringing, he enters the group.

 

**leoreo:** hey hey hey

 

**Kurapikachu:** Hello, Killua.

**Kurapikachu:** I’m sorry about the group name.

 

**leoreo:** i’m not

 

Killua sighs. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Gon, who is grinning excitedly from ear to ear. Killua turns his attention back to his phone and types.

 

**killua99:** _ it’s cool i guess _

**killua99:** _ don’t wanna know where it came from _

 

Gon snickers. Killua makes a face. “This is weird. It’s like we’re texting each other, but we’re sitting side by side.”

Gon laughs. “But this way we can talk to Leorio and Kurapika, too,” he reasons.

Killua doesn’t have an answer, so he looks back down at his phone screen.

 

**leoreo:** alright, so. party info dump:

**leoreo:** starts friday 8pm at pokkle’s house, which means we probably shouldnt show up until like 9 since we’re cool like that.

**leoreo:** i can give you all a ride in my super sweet new car

 

**Kurapikachu:** It’s a hand-me-down van.

 

**leoreo:** she’s a beautiful lady and i love her very much

 

Killua allows himself a faint laugh, glancing to his side to watch Gon do the same, his brown eyes bright and shiny with mirth. The exchange in the chat stops being funny once Killua considers the implications of Leorio’s offer.

He wants to give everyone, including Killua, a ride. Which means having Killua’s address. Which means parking in front of his house. Which means his family,  _ Illumi _ , will see that Killua’s… that he…

… Sort of totally failed at not interacting with people, at sticking with family - the  _ one thing _ his brother had asked of him. It should be easy. Killua… Killua  _ hates _ people. Doesn’t he?

He swallows hoarsely. Head spinning, he types:

 

**killua99:** _ i have to check with my parents _

 

**leoreo:** boooo.

 

**Kurapikachu:** Alright. Just let us know when you can.

 

**leoreo:** ohhh shit shit tesxher teacherscoming bye

 

The conversation ends there. Killua sighs, relieved that he won’t have to talk about it anymore for now, but still with a crawling sense of dread prickling his skin. He pockets his phone and crosses his suddenly cold arms. He glances to the side, expecting to see Gon typing a message of his own to his friends or amusing himself by holding a pencil between his nose and upper lip or something, but accidentally meets his thoughtful eyes instead. He almost flinches at the shock of it, but manages to control himself at the last second.

Gon tilts his head to the side a bit in question. “Are your parents strict?” he guesses and Killua laughs.  _ So much for not having to talk about it anymore. _

Killua isn’t sure how to describe his parents honestly. They’re the red hot sting in his cheek, they’re the ache in his neck from looking down for so long. They’re the noisy floorboards Killua’s learned to avoid. They’re the long sleeves Killua wears even during summer.

And they’d be  _ furious _ if they knew about Gon.

“No,” Killua says instinctively, because  _ strict _ is too kind a word, but then corrects himself, because Gon wouldn’t understand that, saying, “I mean. Yeah. They kinda are.”

Gon hums, thinking and tapping his forefinger against his chin. Finally, he says, “Would you have to sneak out?”

Killua blinks rapidly like a camera shutter. He never even considered - ... _ Could _ he even?

Killua is good at keeping his head down, generally, but is he good enough to  _ sneak out _ ? Is this worth the risk? 

Why does he feel like this is worth the risk?

“Maybe?” Killua tries, looking away. Why doesn’t he just say no? It would be so much easier if he could just say no. Why does Gon make that so hard? Why does his family make  _ everything  _ so hard? 

Why does he want to go to a stupid party so bad? Why is this so important?

Gon’s expression twists like he got unlucky with yet another miscellaneous plant he decided to shove into his mouth. “I don’t want you to get in trouble,” he says, mapping out his thought process like it’s something Killua has even the slightest chance of following, “But I  _ do  _ want you to have fun. Do you like parties? Do you want to go?”

( _ He wants me to have fun. He wants me to  _ have fun.)

As if it matters what Killua likes or wants. He swallows.

“S-Sure,” Killua answers, mentally kicking himself so hard he physically flinches. He’s in the shit now.  _ Dammit. _

“Great!” Gon shouts, but immediately gets shushed by the librarian tapping her acrylic fingernails against her desk. He chuckles sheepishly and bows his head in apology. Killua laughs weakly under his breath. 

Gon turns to him, beaming. Any remnants of his pissy mood earlier melt away in the warmth of his boyish grin. Killua melts a little, too.

 

* * *

_ A party? Are you sure, brother? _

 

_ yeah i’m sure _

_ i mean i already agreed so _

_ What are you gonna tell mom? _

_ And Illumi? _

 

_ i’m not gonna tell them anything _

 

_ I don’t know if that’s such a good idea… _

 

_ neither do i _

* * *

 

 

The week passes by too fast in a blur of laughter at lunch and muscle and bone after school - the two times of the day that stick in Killua’s memory, vibrant as if someone had painted them on the insides of his eyelids so he can relive them every time he blinks. 

The only trouble is it only takes one blink of the eye for the week to be over, and suddenly it’s Friday and Killua has no idea what to do.

“It’s not his birthday or something, right?” he had asked Gon yesterday, chewing on his thumb nail. “I don’t have to bring him anything?”

“Relax,” Gon had laughed, which only made Killua more nervous, “You don’t need to bring anything. Just show up.”

(That alone might be too much to ask.)

… His parents or siblings have never checked on him at night before. If he makes sure they see him right when he gets home and then just heads up to his room, they’ll assume he’s there for the rest of the night. Right? Right.

Everything is fine.

 

* * *

There’s a tree outside Killua’s bedroom window. Years ago, Killua and Alluka found a nest of baby birds in its branches and listened to them cry and squawk until they were ready to fly. 

Now Killua is going to use it to escape his own bedroom.

He has done this exactly once before, when he was five and emotional and Milluki had been picking on him. He managed to climb all the way down, prepared to leave and never come back, but as soon as his feet touched the ground, he met Illumi’s eyes across the yard. After a short staring contest, Killua bit back his tears and walked over so Illumi could lead him back inside with a large hand. Killua still remembers how the gesture must have looked kind to their neighbors, like Illumi was a gentle guide rather than a prison warden. 

He can still feel the phantom touch on his shoulder; the minute but clearly intentional curling of Illumi’s stony fingers into his flesh; the wordless warning not to try this again. 

Killua shakes his head. Taking a deep breath, he pushes his window open and looks outside. It’s past eight, so the whole neighborhood is dark, except for the yellow street lamps; umbrellas of light illuminating stretches of sidewalk beneath them. Killua squints into the distance, trying to determine which way he has to go to meet Leorio and the others. After his eyes adjust to the dark, he throws one last glance over his shoulder to the fluffed pillows shoved underneath his covers to vaguely resemble his sleeping form. Nodding in reassurance to himself, he climbs onto the window pane and grasps the closest tree branch with both hands. 

He’s a little out of practice when it comes to tree climbing, but he makes it, even if his fingers stick together with sap by the time he reaches the ground. He wipes them off on his jeans, scurrying across the yard and not daring to even breathe before he knows he’s out of sight and earshot. 

He told Leorio to wait a couple blocks away, just to be safe. As he makes his way to their meeting spot, he keeps glancing over his shoulder, eyes scanning through the dark in search of figures that aren’t there. He faces forward. His pace and his breath quicken.

Finally, he makes it. He spots Leorio’s shabby minivan and waves at the people inside. Gon sees him first, excitedly smacking Kurapika and Leorio’s shoulders to get their attention. By the time they all spot him, Killua is already sliding one of the doors to the back seat open.

“Yo,” he says calmly with a wave right before Gon hooks an arm around the back of his neck and yanks him inside. He sputters and socks Gon in the shoulder after he manages to shove him off.

Gon laughs. “Yo!”

Kurapika waves at Killua absentmindedly without turning around, focused on their phone screen, while Leorio meets Killua’s eyes in the rearview mirror with a grin. “Ready to party?”

Killua kicks the back of Leorio’s seat. “Just drive,” he says, his uneasiness slowly dissipating.

Leorio does just that. On the way to Pokkle’s, Kurapika plays a garage band playlist, making the shitty van a beacon of music and light filtering through the darkness outside. Killua finds himself laughing more than once and tries not to think about how much he wants this to last.

* * *

 

 

Killua, though he wouldn’t admit it, has never been to a party before. Given his aversion to social events and crowds and people in general, he never thought to change that before Gon had invited him to come.

He’s beginning to think he should have stuck with his no-party-policy.

Pokkle’s house is roomy, but it’s hard to tell with the mass of dancing and drinking bodies inside. The air is heavy with sweat and smoke and the sharp smell of alcohol. It’s nothing like the glasses of wine Killua sips from at family events. Nothing about this is anything like  _ anything _ . 

When Killua tries to take a steadying breath, his lungs seem to fill with something that’s distinctly not oxygen; something that tastes like shit and feels like poison.

“This was a mistake,” Killua says grimly, but his companions don’t seem to hear him over the music pulsing through the house. They push him through the door and into the fray. Killua stumbles and is about to panic when he feels Gon put a steady hand on his shoulder. Killua meets his eyes unsurely, head pounding from all the noise. Somewhere behind Gon’s head, there’s a table full of used red solo cups that are vibrating from the sound of the blown-out speakers and threatening to spill. Killua’s eyes flit back to Gon’s. He just smiles.

“C’mon,” he shouts over the music. “We should say hi to everyone!”

“But I don’t know anyone here,” Killua argues, blushing in shame. This was such a  _ stupid  _ idea. He snuck out for  _ this _ ? Sighing, he glances around, looking for any familiar faces. Kurapika and Leorio have already disappeared. When Killua is about to abandon his search, he spots a familiar hairdo in the crowd. His squinting eyes recognize it as Canary’s.

“Wait,” he says, turning to Gon and jerking his thumb in Canary’s direction. “I know her.”

Gon brightens and smacks Killua’s shoulder companionably. “Great!” he says. “I’ll come - “

A meaty arm around his neck cuts him off as the person it belongs to gives him a ruthless noogie that Killua’s not sure even Gon’s gravity defying hair will be able to withstand. Gon sputters, hands scrambling at his assailant's arm until his face clears in realization and he shouts “ _ Knuckle _ !”

Killua watches as Knuckle laughs, releasing Gon. He says something Killua doesn’t quite hear over the shitty Chainsmokers song ringing in his ears and before he can do anything to stop it, Gon is being dragged away and swallowed up into the crowd. 

Welp. That happened.

Killua sighs and carves a path through the mass of people to where Canary is still propped against the wall, passively scanning the room with made up eyes and an unimpressed frown tucked behind her red solo cup. It looks like she’s about as enthused to be here as Killua is; maybe even less so. He smiles a little in relief and, after a few minutes of squirming through the crowd, slides smoothly against the wall next to her with his hands in his pockets.

“Yo,” Canary says without even looking at him.

“‘Sup,” Killua returns, sighing as he leans his head back against the wall. He raises it again when he realizes the wall is practically rattling along with the music. He sighs again.

“Just people-watching,” Canary says easily, taking another sip from her cup. “You?”

Killua rubs his sweaty palms off on his jeans, watching a drunk girl he doesn’t know completely butcher the song that’s playing. “Wondering why I snuck out for this shit,” he confesses in a shaky breath.

Canary hums. She turns her back to him for a moment and, when she faces him again, she’s holding two cups instead of one. “Drink this,” she tells him, “You’ll feel better.”

Killua takes the cup, looking into it skeptically. “What is it?”

“Liquid courage,” Canary says.

Killua gives her a look. He raises the cup to his nose and sniffs cautiously. It smells...fruity. “No, for real, what is it.”

“Apple vodka and apple juice,” Canary tells him. “Tastes like green jolly ranchers.”

“Huh,” Killua acknowledges, running his finger along the edge of the cup. He sighs. “I guess I might as well have some fun if I’m stuck here.” Slowly, he lifts the cup to his lips.

“I guess so.” Canary smiles at him, raising her cup in the air. Killua mimics her. 

She says, “Cheers,” and they both drink.

* * *

 

 

It doesn’t hit him at first, but then once he lets his guard down it hits him all at once when he tries to get up from the couch Canary and him migrated to after the first drink and almost eats shit. 

“There it is,” Canary laughs, crossing her legs and leaning back leisurely. He flips her off and she grins at him.

“I’m,” Killua starts, still swaying precariously - or is the room the thing that’s spinning? Realization hits him and the corners of his vodka and apple juice-soaked lips quirk into an awed smile. “I’m drunk,” he says, delighted.

Canary giggles into her cup. “Congratulations,” she says and downs the rest of her drink. Killua takes another drink himself and it’s like dousing the fire on his cheeks with gasoline. The house was warm to begin with, stuffed wall-to-wall with dancing bodies, but now it feels unbearable. He wipes sweat from his forehead and flops back down onto the couch next to Canary. He considers rolling up his sleeves, but…  _ No. Better not. _

“It’s hot,” he states instead, leaning his head back against the sofa and exhaling blissfully. The universe spins behind his closed eyes.

“What is?” Canary asks, giving him a sidelong glance, “Gon Freecss?”

Killua sputters, body jerking upright. He spills the rest of his drink over the front of his shirt, hissing in annoyance. “ _ Fffuck _ you,” he says, spitting at Canary by accident. She grimaces, wiping her cheek, then sighs.

“Yeah, like,” she continues boredly, propping her elbow on the back of the couch and resting her cheek in her palm, “aren’t you two butt buddies these days?”

Killua opens his mouth to protest, but he can’t come up with the words in time.

“I guess I can’t totally blame you,” she reasons thoughtfully, “He  _ is  _ pretty cute.”

“That’s not,” Killua starts, squinting at her and shaking his head incredulously. She stares him down in that way only Canary can, eyes dark and probing. Killua sweats. “You’re misinterpreting - He’s just - I’m - Fuck you,” he settles on.

Canary smirks. “I’m good, but you should ask Freecss, I’m sure he’d say yes.”

Killua’s face twists bitterly. “No, for real, fuck you. He’s my - “ he stops. “He’s not - It isn’t like that.”

Canary scooches closer in interest. “So what’s it like, then?” she pries, nudging him in the side. Killua’s lips tremble in frustration.

“I don’t  _ know _ ,” he grumbles and slumps further against the sofa, practically horizontal. He realizes how incriminating it sounds but feels too buzzed to care. Besides, it’s the most honest answer he can give and he can’t find it in him to lie to Canary. “Is Ikalgo here?” he asks, hoping she won’t make a big deal about his obvious attempt at changing the subject.

No such luck. “He’s smoking outside,” she says and then, grinning, tells him, “and you ain’t slick.”

Killua sputters dismissively, waving her off. He really is horizontal now, his chin tucked into his neck and making it hard to breathe. He pushes himself upright with sleepy legs and manages to stand after only two failed attempts. 

“I hate you,” he tells Canary easily, but she just grins. “You bitched your way out of my - my company.” She raises a smug eyebrow at him as he raises his forefinger and thumb in the shape of an ‘L’ that he presses to his forehead - though, he will realize later, he uses the wrong hand.

“Later, hater,” he says and sticks out his tongue as Canary hides her laughing face in her hands. Killua spins on his heel, almost bumping into a couple making out against the wall, and marches off to find - well, he’s not sure what. But he’s sure as hell determined to look. He slithers through the crowd feeling dazed and heavy and decides the first order of business is to go somewhere with less people. Outside seems like his best bet, so he stands on the tips of his feet and peeks over the laughing heads of the people around him. He can see into the kitchen from here and notices an open door to what he assumes is the backyard.

He stumbles out of the living room, but doesn’t register the step leading into the kitchen and would eat shit if it weren’t for the person in front of him breaking his fall. He instinctively grabs onto their forearms to steady himself, looking down and muttering, “Fucking steps,” under his breath.

“Oh, Killua,” he hears the person say and realizes immediately that it’s Gon. Of course it’s Gon. It’s always Gon.

Gon grabs Killua, palms against his ribs, and steadies him. Killua looks up and becomes acutely aware of how warm he is. Gon smiles apologetically.

“I’m sorry about Knuckle,” he sighs, gesturing behind him to where Knuckle is sitting on the floor with what is presumably Pokkle’s dog and sobbing uncontrollably. Killua’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “We haven’t hung out in a while and he can be persistent.”

Killua looks back at Gon, briefly enamored by how he is so clear cut when everything else is blurred and smudged at the edges of Killua’s vision like a vignette. Even the music that seemed deafening earlier is drowned out, its melody faded into simple bass while Gon’s sheepish giggle is clean and bright in his ears. When Gon is around, everything else becomes background. 

“‘s fine,” Killua says absently, unknowingly tipping closer. Gon looks down in alarm at Killua’s feet tripping over themselves even as he tries to stand still and loops one of Killua’s boneless arms around his shoulders. 

He walks Killua into the kitchen and pushes the back door open with his foot, saying, “Let’s go outside.” 

There are people out here, too, but not many. There’s a few scattered over the back porch, earthy smoke billowing out of their mouths while others settle for nursing beers, and a few in the grass below, looking up at the stars and talking about nothing. Kurapika and Leorio are standing under a tree, Kurapika propped against its trunk while Leorio leans in to whisper to them over the rim of a red solo cup, their foreheads almost touching. At first Killua thinks Gon and him are going to join them, but instead they flop down on the porch steps. Gon sighs into the humid night air, head tilting back and eyes closing. Killua’s arm is still around his shoulders and Killua looks at his own hand like it isn’t even a part of his body.

“Are you having fun?” he hears Gon ask and darts his eyes back up to Gon’s, tongue numb and face slack.

“Yes,” he says and while it isn’t quite the truth, it isn’t quite a lie, either. “I had vodka juice.”

Gon’s eyes widen in interest. “Oho,” he laughs slyly, and  _ that’s  _ a look Killua hasn’t seen him wear before, so he might be staring a little bit, “Is this your first time?”

“Uh,” he says, taking a moment to remember the question even though Gon  _ just  _ asked it, “Yeah. It. I’m. It’s good.”

Gon laughs, loud and open, and Killua wishes he could laugh like that; that he had the capacity for joy that Gon does. He swallows dryly and looks up at the scrubby clouds in the night sky, milky gray in the moon’s light.

“I’m really glad you came, Killua,” Gon says after a moment and when Killua looks back at him, he’s smiling -  _ Again _ . It shouldn’t come as a surprise anymore, because that’s just what Gon  _ does _ , and yet every time it happens, every time his lips part and his cheeks dimple in happiness, it makes something in Killua’s chest pinch uncomfortably. Maybe that’s what’s so startling about it - It’s so unbelievably  _ easy _ for him to be happy; it’s his default state. Killua doesn’t know anyone else who’s like that. He wishes he could be like that.

“Gon,” he says, the word heavy and round and comfortable in his unpracticed mouth, and licks his cracked, uncoordinated lips, “You, um.” He stops, juggling the fragmented concepts in his head and trying to string them into a coherent sentence.

Gon cocks his head to the side in question, smiling patiently. “Hm?”

Killua can’t look at him, so he squeezes his eyes shut. His arm is still around Gon’s shoulders, damp with sweat against Gon’s shirt, but somehow moving it feels too daunting a task, so he freezes instead. “You’re,” he says, clearing his throat, “you’re cool.”

Killua isn’t even looking at him, but the same way you can still see the sun in your eyes when they’re closed, he can still tell that Gon is smiling. “Aw, Killua,” he giggles, patting the hand Killua has on his shoulder, and for some reason that’s what urges Killua to push the remaining words on the tip of his tongue out, even if they trip over each other on the way.

“I - I mean it,” he says, opening his eyes and looking at Gon intently, “You’re so  _ happy _ and good and you make people feel good and I just wish -- “

He stops to take a heated, sobering breath that isn’t quite sobering enough and tries again, “I wish we could be friends.” He chances a sidelong look at Gon, heart pounding in his chest so hard it’s difficult to breathe, and watches his face scrunch in honest to god confusion.

Not exactly what he was going for. Not that he actually knows what he  _ was  _ going for. He bites his lip.

Suddenly, a puff of a laugh shoots past Gon’s lips, and another, and another, and another after that until he’s leaning on Killua for support (Which doesn’t go so well; Killua just leans to the side with him, pliable like dough) and laughing breathlessly in Killua’s ear.

Killua is just about to ask why he’s laughing, because this whole situation they’ve found themselves in is anything but funny to Killua, but Gon beats him to the punch and says, “I can’t believe I was so worried.”

Killua squints his eyes at Gon quizzically. Gon just shakes his head, still shaking with laughter. After a while, he catches his breath and leans over again, arms slowly enveloping Killua. Killua bristles instinctively, but can’t keep up the facade that he isn’t enjoying this for long and surrenders himself to the safety of Gon’s arms, sinking into the warm sensation like bath water.

“We  _ are _ friends,” Gon laughs into Killua’s ear, so close that it sounds like his voice is coming from Killua’s own head, and holy  _ fuck _ Canary was really onto something with this whole alcohol thing.

Also,  _ What? _

“We are?” Killua mumbles into Gon’s shoulder. Joy and dread bleed together in his gut and he doesn’t know which will drown out the other.

“Of course,” Gon says back softly, cheerful as always. Killua shudders. “I really like you, Killua.”

“O-Oh,” Killua stammers. His arms, previously limp at his sides, cautiously loop around Gon’s waist. Gon holds him tighter, chuckling to himself, and Killua closes his eyes. He doesn’t know how long they stay there, stuck together on the porch steps while scattered voices whisper and giggle amongst themselves in the dark around them and music hums from inside the house, but he does know that it isn’t quite long enough.

* * *

 

 

“Kurapika, you have to let go,” Leorio sighs as he fishes his car keys out of his pocket. He’s probably the only one at the party who didn’t drink, so he’s giving everyone a ride back home. Kurapika has their arms wrapped tight around his waist like they’re a human belt, burning forehead pressed against the back of his neck.

They were less reasonable with their alcohol intake.

Gon half-laughs, half-sighs as Killua leans on him with one arm around his shoulders. Killua is dizzy and exhausted like it’s been weeks since he’s slept.

The four of them are standing outside in front of Leorio’s car, ready to leave, but their designated driver’s new Kurapika-shaped growth is making that difficult.

“C’mon, Kurapika,” Gon says, a little frustrated. “We gotta go.” His arm rests comfortably across Killua’s back, hand on his waist. Killua is fine right where he is, but says nothing.

Kurapika whines, squeezing Leorio tighter and making him grunt uncomfortably. They bury their face in Leorio’s shoulder, mumbling as if in sleep, and Leorio glances to Killua and Gon a little helplessly.

Gon just shrugs in response.

Leorio sighs in frustration, finally prying Kurapika’s arms off and turning around to face them. Kurapika looks up at him in a daze. Killua has never seen anyone look so out of it before. Is that what he looks like right now?

“Is that what I look like?” Killua asks drowsily, glancing up to look at Gon, but since his head is tucked into his shoulder, all he sees is the line of his jaw.

Gon vibrates in laughter; Killua can feel it. “A little bit,” he giggles, patting Killua on the back. “But it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Killua smiles. “You’ve got me,” he mumbles to himself. Gon holds him a little tighter. Killua glances back over to where Leorio and Kurapika are standing - or, rather, where Leorio is standing and Kurapika is swaying.

Leorio steadies them with one arm and uses the other to open the passenger’s door. “Get in, blondie,” he says, soft and gruff at the same time. Kurapika tugs on the front of Leorio’s shirt.

“No,” they grumble stubbornly. “I wanna stay right here.” They tip their head forward until it lands in the crook of Leorio’s neck. Leorio sighs. Slowly, he shifts his arms and bends his knees, literally sweeping Kurapika off their feet and cradling them against his chest. Kurapika squeaks, formerly droopy eyes going wide in alarm.

“L-Let  _ go _ ,” they demand, pounding a fist against his shoulder half-heartedly and Leorio scoffs.

“As you wish,” Leorio agrees, bends down, and drops them in the passenger’s seat of the car. Before Kurapika can protest, he slams the door shut. Through the window, Killua can see them gape in outrage before crossing their arms turning away.

Leorio dusts off his hands with a huff before turning to Gon and Killua. “Please tell me you’re not gonna make me do the same thing with you two,” he says tiredly, grimacing at the very thought. Killua and Gon shake their heads in unison and dutifully climb into the back of the van.

There’s no music when they drive this time, but Killua’s okay with that. After a few minutes on the road, Kurapika gets over their mini tantrum and is back to being almost unsettlingly cuddly, reaching for Leorio’s hand and raising it to cup their cheek when they reach a stop light.

“You’re killing me,” Leorio laughs weakly, but doesn’t pull away, even when the light turns green. Kurapika smiles. Watching feels almost voyeuristic, so Killua looks away. 

He’s not used to comfortable silences like this; nobody talks for the whole ride, but Killua doesn’t feel anxious. He relishes it, temple pressed to the cool glass of the car window, bleary eyes squinting against the passing streetlights. He doesn’t register when the car finally stops in his neighborhood. It takes Gon’s hand on his knee for him to break out of his trance.

“Killua, we’re here,” Gon says softly with a rueful smile. Killua’s heart sinks.

“Oh,” he says. “Okay.” He fumbles with the seat belt, fingers boneless and slippery, so Gon reaches over and helps him. “Thanks,” Killua says, blushing.

“No problem,” Gon giggles warmly. He pauses, considering his next words, and adds a shy, “I’m glad you came, Killua. Hanging out with you was really fun.”

Killua nods dumbly, suddenly unable to summon coherent speech. “Yeah,” he settles on, but it sounds half-swallowed. Gon seems to get it, though, and smiles a little brighter.

“You sure you can make it to your house by yourself?” Leorio asks, fixing Killua with a stern look in the rearview mirror. Killua watches himself nod a little to firmly - his head keeps spinning even after he stops moving - and immediately invalidates his assurance by tripping as he gets out of the car. 

“Shit,” Killua says, taking a deep breath and focusing on standing upright before he attempts walking again.

Leorio sighs and rolls down his window. Kurapika is snoozing in the passenger’s seat.  _ Lucky. _

“Look,” Leorio says firmly, “Text me when you’re in the house. I’ll wait out here until then, okay?”

Killua is oddly touched by his concern and simply nods again, slower this time. “Okay,” he says, “Thanks, Leorio.”

Leorio smiles tiredly. “No problemo,” he sighs. The window starts rolling up, but just before it closes all the way, Leorio says, “Don’t forget to drink water, okay?”

Killua scoffs. “Yes,  _ dad _ ,” he jokes, grinning.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Leorio says and the window shuts. Gon waves enthusiastically from the back window seat where Killua was sitting before and Killua waves back lightly before turning and making his way towards his house. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and sees that it’s already past 3am. He feels guilty for keeping Alluka up so long and texts her an apology.

 

_ almost at the hosue _

_ soryr forn being late _

_ love you _

_ let me in thru the cellr? _

 

_ *DEEP SIGH* _

_ Sure thing, alky _

 

Killua grins as he slips his phone back into his pocket and stumbles the rest of the way to his house, walking around it and into the backyard where there’s a short stairwell leading down to the outside door to the cellar. He texts Alluka again when he gets there so he doesn’t need to walk and she silently opens the door for him and ushers him inside. She leads him to her room by the hand and closes the door behind her.

“Okay,” she says eagerly as Killua flops down onto her bed, sinking into the thick pink comforter and sighing at the familiar scent of the detergent, “Tell. Me.  _ Everything _ .”

Killua grumbles incoherently in response, closing his eyes against the harsh light of Alluka’s desk lamp. “Turn off the lights,” he mutters.

Alluka huffs. He hears her march across the carpeted floor but only opens his eyes to look at her after he hears the click of the lamp’s power switch.

“It was fine,” Killua says simply, remembering he’s still got his shoes on and weakly kicking them off. He also remembers he’s supposed to text Leorio and pulls out his phone again.

“Just ‘fine’?” Alluka asks suspiciously, jumping up onto her bed and rolling next to her brother. She watches him send a text to the group chat Gon added him to earlier that week.

 

**killua99:** _ home _

**killua99:** _ thanks for drivnig leorio _

 

**leoreo:** great, and no problem

**leoreo:** goodnight dude

 

**jan-ken-gon: sleep well killua!!**

 

**killua99:** _ yeah _

 

Killua smiles up at his phone. Alluka hums next to him.

“You’ve gotten popular, huh?” she muses, patting Killua’s head. Killua slips his phone back into his pocket and rolls onto his side, curling up against Alluka.

“I’m selling out,” he jokes and falls asleep to the sound of Alluka laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for this chapter: the weekend - modern baseball
> 
> and so gon and killua officially become friends. now they can stop worrying about it like idiots. yeah. 
> 
> (*whispers* they find other stuff to worry about, dont worry)
> 
> anyway thanks for reading!! leave a comment to feed my life force so i can write more fic and also sleep at night


	6. Chapter 5.5. - Shut Up, Make Out to Something Already

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Holy hell, slow down,” Leorio laughs once Kurapika slams their cup down onto the counter, already feeling a rush of dizziness. “You have all night.”
> 
> Kurapika has been telling themself platitudes like that for years now and it’s always just seemed like an excuse to stall things. Now they’re seniors; Kurapika can’t fool themself into thinking there will always be a “next time” anymore, and sure, maybe they have tonight, but what about tomorrow?
> 
> Kurapika can't afford to slow down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle in kids its LEOPIKA TIME

The thing about Leorio is that he’s an idiot.

Kurapika does their best to remind him of this whenever an opportunity presents itself, through a bony elbow jammed into his ribs or a scathing text in their inappropriately named group chat. Kurapika can’t help it. There’s certain things that Leorio just  _ doesn’t get _ , no matter how obvious Kurapika makes things for him. Maybe this is what Leorio meant when he said they have trouble explaining things; that they get frustrated too quickly and lash out, quick-witted tongue spitting insults like the crack of a whip. Maybe that doesn’t just apply to when Kurapika is trying to help Leorio with his chemistry homework. But in Kurapika’s defense, they wouldn’t have to be like that if Leorio would just open his eyes and look at what’s right in front of him; if he could only just count the atoms, put two and two together,  _ look _ . Kurapika tries  _ so hard  _ to get him to understand; calculates each inflection, every bump of their shoulders as they share a textbook, but he still - he won’t - 

_ Ugh. _

Whatever. Kurapika isn’t interested in introspection right now. They’ve decided they need a new approach; one that involves more alcohol and less waiting around for Leorio to make the first move.

The first thing they do upon arriving at Pokkle’s is grab Leorio by the wrist and yank him through the sweaty crowd, leaving Killua and Gon to fend for themselves. Kurapika is here for one reason and one reason only, and as much as they like hanging out with Killua, they aren’t really interested in babysitting him. They’ll let Gon take care of that deer-in-headlights look on his face.

The music that’s pulsing through the walls is objectively bad - that’s not Kurapika’s opinion, it’s a  _ fact _ that they’re sure even Leorio would agree with - but they like that it’s  _ noise _ . That the sound of it resonates in their core and rattles their bones. That their skin buzzes from the inescapable vibrations of the blown out speakers. That they can’t even hear themselves think. An eager grin spreads over their face as they squeeze between the sticky bodies filling the room way past capacity (which must be some kind of fire hazard, now that they think about it - but there they go again with the  _ thinking  _ when they’re supposed to be drinking instead).

“Slow down, will ya?” Leorio calls out over the pulsating music, boxed in by a cage of shifting shoulders and swinging hips. Kurapika intends to soldier on, but when they feel the arm they’re using to drag Leorio around jerk like a chain pulled taut by a cinderblock dangling from the end, they turn, grab Leorio’s hand with both of theirs, and pull, their whole body heaving. Their hands are sweaty from the humidity of the room, the skin of their palms slippery, but Kurapika manages to pull him free, somehow, stumbling back with the sudden lack of resistance. One of their shoes comes off, glued to the soda-and-beer-sticky floorboards.

“Damn,” they hiss under their breath, shoving their foot back into it and pulling their knee up towards their chest. The shoe makes an almost velcro-like sound as it’s peeled off the floor. They huff, irritated, and grip one of Leorio’s hands a little tighter as they balance on one leg, pulling on the back of their shoe so it’s not squashed under their heel.

“Alright, Cinderella, got your slipper?” Leorio quips once they’re finished, dodging dancing elbows and knees. Kurapika squints up at him, having to crane their neck - he’s so  _ tall _ and lit up in technicolor patches of light from the disco ball in the corner. “Because this right here?” He gestures to the oblivious bodies infringing on their personal space. “I’m not drunk enough for it. It sucks.” As if to prove his point, a girl in high heels slams the stilt of her shoe square in the middle of Leorio’s foot and then keeps dancing like she didn’t even notice. 

Kurapika has to stifle a laugh, their lips quivering as Leorio’s mouth wrenches shut and his eyes water in pain. They grab him by the hands and pull him along, suppressing their fugitive giggles by biting down on their bottom lip.

The two of them stumble into the kitchen and breathe a sigh of relief. The air here is less thick and they don’t have to squint through strobing beams of light to see. Kurapika hones in on their target immediately. There’s a thick glass bottle on the kitchen counter, filled with crystal clear liquid, and it seems roughly the height of a small child. Leorio stops whining about his foot to whistle, impressed.

Kurapika unsticks their palms from Leorio’s, maneuvering past the few stragglers in the kitchen, grabs the bottle by its fat neck and dumps its contents into a red solo cup they swipe from a nearby stack. The almost clinical-smelling liquid sloshes against the inside of the cup, splashing over the rim. Once the cup is about three quarters filled, Kurapika sets the bottle back down and turns to Leorio, making a show of tipping their head back and chugging it all without taking a breath.

The vodka stings Kurapika’s tongue and sears a path from their throat to the inside of their chest. It’s like swallowing hot hand sanitizer, and though this is not Kurapika’s first time drinking (far from it), the foulness of it catches them off guard every time. They sputter around the lip of their cup, but manage to valiantly force the rest of it down.

“Holy hell, slow down,” Leorio laughs once Kurapika slams their cup down onto the counter, already feeling a rush of dizziness. “You have all night.”

Kurapika has been telling themself platitudes like that for years now and it’s always just seemed like an excuse to stall things. Now they’re seniors; Kurapika can’t fool themself into thinking there will always be a “next time” anymore, and sure, maybe they have tonight, but what about  _ tomorrow _ ?

Kurapika can’t afford to slow down.

“You’re no fun,” Kurapika tells him, turning back to the bottle and watching the space around them wipe across their vision like motion blur on one of Gon’s poorly aimed snapchats. It scares them just a little, how quickly the alcohol is affecting them (Leorio has always said they’re a lightweight), but they’re not about to give up.

They blink when Leorio’s hand curls around theirs, gripping the neck of the bottle, and twists his wrist just enough for the flow of vodka to stop. Kurapika turns their head and is startled by how close Leorio suddenly is, their nose almost bumping the corner of his stubbly jaw. They don’t notice when Leorio guides the bottle back down onto the counter.

“I’m cutting you off,” he says sensibly.

Kurapika glares. “I’m not a child,” they snap, swiping their hand out of his loose grasp and tucking it into their pocket. As if to prove a point, they reach for their half-empty cup and dump the searing liquid down their throat, lighting matches in their chest. Leorio sighs deeply.

“Alright,” he says tiredly, plucking the cup out of Kurapika’s slack-fingered hands and filling it with water from the faucet. “But you have to drink this, too,” he instructs, handing it back to them in a well-meaning compromise. Kurapika wants to argue on principle, but the alcohol has left their tongue bitter and dry, so they sip it obediently.

“Outside?” Leorio asks, jerking his thumb towards the back door behind him. “The shitty music is kinda pissing me off and it’s hot as hell in here.”

Kurapika smiles around the rim of their cup, nodding. 

The two of them sort of have a routine at parties.

They drink and find a place to be alone and Leorio’s glasses fog up from the humidity that gathers in his cheeks and Kurapika sticks to him like glue, dazedly trying to calculate exactly how much physical contact falls safely within the realm of platonic affection and ultimately giving up in favor of burying their nose in the crook of Leorio’s sweaty neck. Leorio will dip his thumb into the valleys between Kurapika’s knuckles and rest his cheek on top of their blond head and the two of them will talk about school and life and music. Kurapika will spend the night passed out on Leorio’s bed while he takes the floor because he’s annoyingly a gentleman like that. A million feelings they’re both somehow aware of but don’t know what to do with go unsaid for another night.

There’s a slight hitch in the plan since Leorio is the designated driver this time, which means Kurapika will have to get  _ doubly  _ plastered to compensate. But they can work with this. They’ll improvise.

That’s what they think, at least, until they hear Leorio say, “Oh, Yorkshire! What’s up?” and they can’t help the grimace that curls their upper lip. They look up, dread heavy in their gut as they watch Leorio wrap a girl with bouncy green hair and a flat nose in a friendly hug.

It’s not that they don’t like Cheadle Yorkshire. Really, it isn’t.

They just don’t like the fact that they can’t find a reason not to like her besides how well she gets along with Leorio.

Deeply bothered, Kurapika crosses their arms and sends a steady glare at the two of them as they smile and hug and catch up like it’s been years since they’ve seen each other instead of the few hours between their mutual social studies class and now. Kurapika, because they’re proactive and on top of things and efficient, turns back towards the abandoned bottle on the counter and takes a long gulp straight from it. They swallow, looking at Leorio expectantly and narrowing their venomous eyes when he doesn’t so much as glance in their direction.  _ Look at me _ , Kurapika urges silently,  _ Look how much I’m drinking. Think of my poor liver, Leorio. _

“Leorio, I’m glad I ran into you,” Cheadle says amiably and Kurapika thinks,  _ I bet you are. _ “I was wondering when you wanted to meet up to work on our project? I know it’s not due for a while, but…”

Kurapika stops listening then, painfully apathetic to what she’s talking about but blisteringly aware of the way she’s saying it. Their eyes dart to Leorio, scanning his face for something even resembling an  _ iota _ of recognition, but no. He taps a finger against his cheek in thought, innocently listing the days he has time to meet with her to work, blind to her flirtations.

(The sensible part of Kurapika, subdued from cheap vodka, is just present enough to acknowledge on some level that they might be projecting, just a little, but the larger part; the part that’s gotten them into back-alley knife fights and moved from foster home to foster home, squashes their own observation like a mosquito.)

They glare, drinking like a fish and almost flopping on the floor like one, too, once they finally move to set the bottle down and realize their legs have been replaced by pillars of jelly.

“...et some fresh air, right, Kurapika?” Leorio is asking them suddenly, beaming down at them, and Kurapika’s head spins.

“I haven’t been listening,” they deadpan, turning slowly to give Cheadle a bored look.

“I’m playing cards with some people from social studies,” Cheadle says, unbothered by Kurapika’s concentrated disdain for her very existence. “I was wondering if you two wanted to join.”

Kurapika has literally never wanted to do anything less in their whole life, except maybe actually pay Leorio the money they owe him from their last poker game. Kurapika looks up at Leorio and is pleased to see that he has the decency to look a little uncomfortable. He sends Kurapika a quick, meaningful glance, and the gears behind Kurapika’s forehead, despite being rusted by alcohol, turn just enough for the silent message in Leorio’s eyes to click. They feel a heady rush of warmth flood them. Leorio still favors their company over Cheadle’s, after all.

“I am inebriated,” Kurapika announces in a string of sloppy consonants, “and need fresh air.”

Leorio laughs convincingly, but Kurapika knows it’s all show and smiles smugly at the fact that Cheadle never will. “You little rascal,” Leorio chides, ruffling Kurapika’s yellow hair, “Just what am I gonna do with you?”

Kurapika has a few suggestions in mind, but has just enough sense to bite their tongue. They’re not  _ that _ drunk. Yet.

Leorio picks their forgotten cup of water up off the counter and hands it to them as he guides them out of the kitchen with a hand at their back, calling, “Sorry, Yorkshire, gotta babysit,” over their shoulder.

Kurapika stumbles over the threshold bridging the kitchen with the back porch, some of their water splashing onto the wood, but Leorio’s big hand around their bicep keeps them from meeting a similar fate. Any comments they had lined up about being referred to as a baby scatter in their mind and all is forgiven.

“Thanks,” they mumble, their loose tongue making the word smoosh together. “Thank you,” they try again, being sure to enunciate properly this time.

Leorio quirks an eyebrow down at them, smiling, and this, really, is a horrible angle, with the way his chin tucks in towards his neck - or at least it should be - but Kurapika’s heart trips over itself as they look up, up, up at him anyway.  _ He’s so tall _ , they think as they descend the porch steps into the cool black grass below, holding their cup close to their chest to avoid spilling any more water. It’s a statement of fact, like  _ It’s already almost October  _ or  _ Leorio wants to go to med school _ , but the feeling that comes with it; the tight ache in their chest whenever they notice, isn’t quite so objective.

Somehow, they make the worldless agreement to stop underneath the tree by the cliche white picket fence dividing Pokkle’s backyard and the neighbor’s, maybe because it’s one of the few areas that doesn’t have someone smoking or nursing a beer in it. It’s somehow both humid and chilly out here and Kurapika doesn’t know whether to attribute it to the weather or to the gasoline they swallowed in the kitchen pumping sluggishly through their veins.

“Think Killua and Gon are alright in there?” Leorio wonders, glancing over his shoulder toward the house, each of its windows an orange square of light against the larger silhouette of brick.

A small part of Kurapika, one they decide not to think about too much, feels just a tiny bit guilty for ditching them. Still… “Gon is there. What could possibly go wrong?” they say, and can’t decide if they mean it as a joke or not. 

Leorio laughs openly. “I guess you’re right,” he says with a cheeky grin, his jaw sharp and his eyes crinkling at the edges. Kurapika tugs at the collar of their shirt, suddenly feeling constricted by it, and realizes that their fingers feel sort of like rubber and fumble uselessly. They give up, the tightness in their throat not having subsided in the least, and huff quietly in frustration.

“Hey,” Leorio says then, softer. He takes a step forward and leans down, because he’s so tall that he towers over Kurapika otherwise, and asks, “You doin’ okay?”

Kurapika is glad they’re leaning back against the sturdy trunk of the tree, because otherwise they are certain they’d tip right over from the heady smell of Leorio’s cologne that they’d insisted was way too strong when he’d first started using it, but only because he was bragging about all the girls it would get him. It hadn’t worked, obviously, because Leorio is only ever suave and charming when he doesn’t mean to be. Like now.

_ Now. _

Kurapika realizes they’ve taken too long to answer when Leorio’s face pinches in concern. “Kurapika?” he says, experimentally waving his hand in front of their face to try and break them out of their stupor. “Ground control to Major Kurapika. If you don’t snap out of it, I’m gonna start singing and David Bowie will roll in his fabulous grave.”

Kurapika’s lips quirk at the edges, because Leorio singing isn’t really a threat at all - he’s good, but he’ll deny it if anyone tells him as much.

Leorio mirrors their smile, lowering his hand. “Seriously, though. There’s nothing you wanna tell me?”

_ I want you to finally kiss me _ , they think at him and are met with a confused tilt of his head. Kurapika’s telepathic abilities fail them for the second time tonight.

They’re laughing before they can even think to stop themself, head falling back against the bark of the tree. Leorio has  _ no idea _ . Stupid.

“You’re freaking me out,” Leorio says, which only makes Kurapika laugh harder, their hand covering their leaking eyes. The night air is fresh in their lungs and brings a new kind of intoxication with it. When they lower their hand again, their vision is blurrier than before and they have more trouble stringing together a sentence. They don’t realize their grip on their cup has loosened enough for it to start to slip before Leorio wraps his hand around it and sets it down in the grass, next to one of the pillars of the fence so it won’t fall over. He stands back up and looks down at Kurapika warily.

“You,” Kurapika laughs and, their hands now liberated from the cup, reaches up to touch Leorio’s cheeks (They have to stretch up on the tips of their toes to make it and something about that feels  _ incredible _ ), “are so  _ tall _ .”

Leorio blinks behind his dorky Lennon glasses that Kurapika will never admit they adore - or will they? They don’t have a lot to lose, at this point, and they have even less time. Maybe they should say it after all.

“I like your glasses, too,” they confess, biting their smiling bottom lip, arms snaking around Leorio’s neck and pulling him down. The tips of their noses bump, which reminds them - “And your nose.”

Leorio grins with his mouth wide open, smug and delighted. “Oh man, you are  _ such  _ a lightweight,” he teases.

Kurapika’s smile drops, but their arms around his neck don’t. “I take it back. I despise all of those things and you make me sick,” they huff.

Leorio laughs, a hand resting on Kurapika’s waist. “No, no, don’t  _ stop _ ,” he goads, mischief twinkling in his dark eyes, “Tell me more about how awesome I am.”

Kurapika grins back suddenly, dizzy and warm and liking how far Leorio’s hand can span around their waist. “Then - Then you have to say nice things back,” they decide, trying to get closer but faltering when their wobbly knees buckle. A second, blisteringly, heart-stoppingly warm hand joins the first on Kurapika’s waist, steadying them.

“I accept your terms,” Leorio announces, ready for a challenge.

Kurapika presses their forehead against his collarbone through his old Motown t-shirt. It smells like his house, his detergent, his cologne; him. Kurapika’s head swims with it, intoxication from alcohol and intoxication from Leorio swishing around in their mind like a fizzy cocktail of bittersweet adolescence.

“I gave you three,” Kurapika says, nuzzling Leorio’s chest, wondering when he’s going to decide it’s too much, too close, and flinch away. He doesn’t, not even a little, briefly squeezing Kurapika’s waist instead. They smile dreamily, hope blooming in the charred wasteland behind their ribs. “Now you have to give me three.”

“Does saying I’m tall really count as a compliment?” Leorio asks skeptically, chest vibrating pleasantly with every word. Kurapika wiggles closer; as close as they can. One of Leorio’s hands leaves their waist, rubbing up their back until it reaches the back of their neck. Kurapika shivers and barely manages to keep the blissful sigh from pouring past their lips. 

“I like it,” Kurapika murmurs, fingering the back of Leorio’s shirt collar, knuckles brushing his bare skin.

Leorio laughs almost nervously, his chest vibrating again. Kurapika presses their ear against it, cheek warming when they realize how fast his heart is beating.

“Fair enough,” Leorio concedes, and then, after a moment, “I like how you’re short.”

Kurapika’s head snaps up indignantly, just narrowly avoiding collision with Leorio’s pointy chin. “I am  _ not _ ,” they insist, voice too loud considering their proximity. “You are just too big.”

“Well, then I like being taller than you,” Leorio amends, grinning in a way that would be charming if it weren’t calling Kurapika’s pride into question.

“That doesn’t count,” they try, but Leorio silences them with a hand guiding their head back against his chest and a dismissive, “Hush.”

Kurapika smothers their sour expression in the familiar scent and fabric of Leorio’s shirt. 

“I like…” Leorio continues thoughtfully, fingers smoothing over the top of Kurapika’s head. “Your hair.”

That makes Kurapika smile. “I know,” they say slyly.

“What?” Leorio squawks, shoving Kurapika back by the shoulder and inspecting their face. The sudden movement makes them dizzy, their soupy brain sloshing around the inside of their skull. “You  _ know _ ? I’ve never told you that before.”

“Not everyone is as olbivi -  _ oblivious  _ as you, Leorio,” they point out, smug despite the way their tongue trips. “You’re always touching it and things like that, when you can get away with it.”

Leorio looks like he wants to deny the evidence, his expression screwing into a blushing scowl. Kurapika knows he’s flashing back to all the movie nights they’ve spent with Kurapika’s head in his lap and Leorio’s hands in their hair; all the noogies that turned into something softer, because Kurapika is, too. “I’m not oblivious,” he says after a long moment of begrudging contemplation. 

“You are,” Kurapika laughs, thinks about what their words actually mean, and falters. Their smile dims, their eyes slowly glancing off to the side. “You are,” they say again, quieter this time.

Time. They’re running out of time.

“Hey…” Leorio says carefully, patting Kurapika’s cheek so they look back up. The concern is back on his face again, creasing his brow and bending his lips down like one of those cheap spoons from the school cafeteria. Leorio sometimes twists them into elaborate shapes behind his back and then pretends he did it by using telekinesis. Their eyes sting suddenly at the memory, stupid as it is, and Leorio’s palm presses against their cheek more firmly as he says, “ _ Hey _ , hey hey…”

Kurapika sniffs, dizzy and suddenly upset. “What’s wrong?” they hear Leorio ask gently, whispering breath fanning across their temple when he curls his arms around their shoulders.

Kurapika fists the front of his shirt, squeezing their eyes shut. He’s so kind and so, so cruel and still just doesn’t  _ get it _ . “Leorio,” they say, peeling themself off of him, just far enough to see his face. He looks lost. Of course he does. 

Kurapika swallows dryly. “Kiss me.”

Leorio’s eyelids flutter as he gives a short but quizzical shake of his head. “Wha - “ he starts, but shuts his mouth again, cheeks filling with color. After frantically searching Kurapika’s eyes for a moment, he tries again: “ _ What _ ?”

Kurapika’s face twists in frustration. They hook their arms back around his neck, stretch their unsteady legs, and tilt their chin up.

Their lips land square on Leorio’s mouth and Kurapika wants to cry instantly. Why did it have to come to this? Why is this what it takes for Leorio to realize how much they love him? Why is Kurapika so bad at being honest?

Leorio makes a kind of panicked noise in the back of his throat, arms flailing as Kurapika angles their head and sucks on his bottom lip, fingers winding tightly into his hair. Their breath hitches against his mouth and they belatedly realize they really are crying, tears hot on the skin of their cheeks, trickling down until they can taste them. After another stuttering breath they lick his mouth open, shoving their tongue past his teeth desperately. It’s too hard and bitter and sad and Kurapika never wants it to stop; they need Leorio to understand. They can’t wait anymore, can’t pretend the bickering and the glances and the noogies and the jabs aren’t all indicative of something bigger. Something they’re too scared to say out loud.

The two of them have been taking it for granted, that unspoken understanding, and at some point Kurapika realized that it’s senior year already and Leorio is going to go to med school and Kurapika is going to die in an alley somewhere without ever having kissed him. 

Leorio jerks his head away suddenly, their tear-and-spit-soaked lips separating with a loud smack, and Kurapika freezes, and it’s all over. They watch him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring off to the side with his lovely hands balled into fists.

“You’re angry,” Kurapika says blankly, lips slick. They consider rubbing them dry the way Leorio is, but they aren’t ready to let go of the physical reminder that  _ yes, that happened  _ yet.

Leorio sighs sharply, hand dropping away from his stony face. “Yeah, I’m angry,” he says gruffly. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m sorry,” Kurapika whispers, feeling childish and ashamed.

Leorio still won’t look at them. There have been plenty of times where Kurapika has wished that they were invisible; that they could be left alone, but not by Leorio. Never by Leorio. He’s always been there and even though he’s standing right in front of them, he suddenly feels very far away. “I wasn’t expecting that,” he admits, rubbing the back of his head and blushing.

_ Of course you weren’t.  _ Kurapika bites the inside of their cheek. It’s cold, they realize, without Leorio’s proximity. There’s a whole foot of empty space between them. Kurapika shivers as a horrifying thought occurs to them, chest aching at the very idea.

“Have I,” they say fearfully, pressing the heel of their palm against one of their stinging eyes. “Have I been misreading things?” They chew their bottom lip, hiding their eyes behind their hand. “Was that not okay?”

“You’re  _ drunk _ , Kurapika,” Leorio reprimands softly, as if they don’t know; as if that wasn’t the whole point. “You’re shitfaced. And I’m not. And I don’t - I can’t. Fuck, I just  _ can’t _ .” He laughs painfully.

Kurapika parts their fingers and peeks through the gaps. Leorio is giving them a strange look, frustrated and confused and vulnerable all at once.

Swallowing, they let their hands slip from their face, instead cautiously placing them on Leorio’s sides. When he doesn’t jerk away, they drop their head against his chest. “I’m sorry,” they whisper again, knowing that they should step back; that Leorio obviously doesn’t want the same things Kurapika does. But they can’t help it. Somehow, they just can’t help it, and they’re glad they can blame it on the alcohol when this all comes back to bite them. This is the last time and they have to make the most of it. They’re selfish. They need him.

Leorio sighs in defeat, resting a sweaty hand on top of Kurapika’s head. He’s nervous. Kurapika can feel his heart beating against their forehead, hard and fast. They melt against him, arms snug around his middle and fingers clinging to the back of his shirt. 

Kurapika isn’t sure how long the two of them stay like that. When Leorio finally tells them it’s time to go, they’re even more dazed than before, needing to grab onto Leorio’s bicep to avoid collapsing like a tower of jenga blocks, the alcohol and the exhaustion having caught up with them and holding on with both hands. Leorio is the only thing they can recognize in the drunken swirl that’s become their surroundings. They filter out everything else, focusing on how the dewy skin on the back of Leorio’s neck feels against their forehead and wondering how it might taste, never wanting to let go.

When Leorio picks them up so easily, like Kurapika is nothing, they argue to be put down on principle, despite the way their toes curl delightedly in their shoes. When Leorio drops them into the passenger’s seat, their frustration becomes real, and they don’t even look at Leorio for a good five minutes, instead trying to make sense of the wishy-washy blobs of light passing them on the road. Eventually, their eyes catch on Leorio’s reflection in the window, and the way his arm rests almost deliberately on the center console. Expectantly, like he’s waiting for something. That’s how Kurapika is choosing to interpret it, anyway. If they’re wrong, this will still just be a minor offense compared to what happened earlier. If they thought they had little to lose before, they have absolutely nothing now.

They turn slowly, staring at Leorio’s broad hand as he drums his fingers against the center console, before finally covering it with their own. It’s so small compared to Leorio’s, much daintier and softer around the edges despite the rough scar by their thumb. Kurapika likes Leorio’s better. They bring his hand up to caress their cheek, guiding his movements with their own. Leorio laughs self-deprecatingly as he shakes his head, and then moves his thumb across Kurapika’s cheekbone.

“You’re killing me,” he says, fondness creeping into his voice, and Kurapika smiles. Even if he doesn’t want to kiss, even if he doesn’t want to be together, Kurapika will bear it if they can only have this.

They doze off at some point, buzzing with warmth and dizzy with dreams of the way it felt to kiss Leorio and what it might have felt like if he had kissed back.

When they wake up it’s to Leorio’s hand patting their cheek as he murmurs, “Wake up. We’re here,” his voice low.

“Where?” is Kurapika’s first question, their disoriented eyes cracking open and hurting from the infiltration of yellow light flooding them. Leorio must have turned it on. A quick glance behind them tells them that Killua and Gon have already been dropped off. They must have been asleep for a while. “Your house?”

“ _ Your  _ house,” Leorio corrects them, reaching down by their hip and releasing the seat belt uncomfortably digging into the side of their neck with a faint click. 

They look at him in confusion as the sash swishes out of the way, sluggishly rubbing their eye and saying, “But I thought…?”

Leorio blushes, glancing off to the side and rubbing the back of his neck. He retreats, leaning back against his seat instead of hovering over the center console. Kurapika misses him immediately and is suddenly very awake.

“I think it would be better if you crashed at your own place this time,” Leorio says carefully, staring straight ahead.

Kurapika’s heart plummets into their stomach, confusion and regret pooling together and making them nauseous. “ _ Why _ ?” they demand, voice high and thin.

Leorio sighs roughly. “You  _ know _ why,” he says sternly, pushing his glasses up towards his hairline and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He’s right.

“Did you hate it that much?” Kurapika whispers gravely, cold to the tips of their ears as they tilt their head down. They study their folded hands in their lap. They really fucked up this time; miscalculated so royally that they’re no longer even a part of the equation. They should have stuck to rubbing shoulders when they study together.

Leorio whips his head around and the sudden movement makes Kurapika glance back up to him, startled.

He looks confused for a long moment, scrunched eyebrows knitting deep folds into the skin above his nose. Kurapika stares back, but when the silence gets too much for them and they just want to leave and kick and scream and tell him  _ I never really liked your glasses, anyway _ , Leorio’s expression clears in understanding.

A small smile forms on his lips and Kurapika seethes.

“Fuck you,” they snarl, because even if it’s been ages since they’ve said it, it feels right, tongue and teeth pushing the familiar words out with confidence. Disoriented and wounded and angry, they reach for the door handle. “Just forget it.”

“Nonononono,” Leorio is saying quickly, but Kurapika ignores him, cracking the heavy door open with trembling hands. Leorio reaches across Kurapika’s lap for the handle and pulls it shut again, and it’s just like him, doing something that goes against whatever Kurapika is trying to accomplish. “You don’t understand.”

“No,  _ you  _ don’t understand,” Kurapika shouts, curling a fist into Leorio’s collar and yanking him forward. Their foreheads bump together and it almost knocks Kurapika out while Leorio hisses in pain. They take a breath as their spinning head settles, shut their eyes tight, and push their chin forward, but when they open them again, they’re kissing the center of Leorio’s palm instead of his lips. They blink, momentarily dumbfounded as Leorio chuckles sheepishly, the sound smothered in the back of his hand until Kurapika shoves him off, spitting, “That’s what I thought.”

Leorio isn’t smiling anymore and Kurapika thinks,  _ Good _ , and hates themself for it. “Kurapika,  _ wait _ ,” he pleads, grabbing them by the shoulder when they reach for the door handle again. “It’s not that I hated - “

“You said you were angry!” Kurapika yells accusingly, hot tears pricking their eyes. They try to shove his hand off, but Leorio is stronger than they are right now. Kurapika regrets getting drunk. They regret everything.

“Yeah, but not because I didn’t wanna kiss you, you idiot,” Leorio shoots back, seeming to shock even himself and going red all over. The shouting match comes to an abrupt end, the only sounds in the car being their rapid breaths filling the cramped, humid space between their seats. Kurapika squints at him, even more confused than before. They anchor their fingers in his collar again and lean in, head angled, eyes closed, but Leorio clamps his hand over their mouth for the second time and sputters, “Would you cut it out?!”

Kurapika’s eyes snap open, heat festering on their cheeks. They claw at Leorio’s wrist, pulling his hand away from their mouth. They think about Leorio’s thumb brushing their cheek, about his long fingers tangled in their hair, about the easy way his arms fit around them as he rested his chin on top of their head, and decides this is all a little bit unfair. “Well, which is it?!” they roar, not having felt rage like this in a long time. It’s ancient and new and boiling hot and right now they almost want Leorio to get burned. “Do you want to kiss me or not?!” 

Leorio sighs, loud and rough, clearly irritated, which is completely ridiculous in Kurapika’s opinion, and just says, “Ask me again when you’re sober.”

_ Excuse me? _ Kurapika wants to demand, outraged, but Leorio is already reaching over and pushing the car door open for them. 

“Now get out before I do something stupid,” he orders, leaning back and crossing his arms. The authoritative effect is ruined by the heavy red staining his cheeks and Kurapika scoffs.

They shake their head at him in confused indignation. “Leorio,” they say darkly, climbing out of their seat with uncoordinated but determined limbs, “ _ Everything you do is stupid _ .” Furious, they slam the door shut before Leorio can get the last word. They stomp off toward their house, clenched fists trembling with barely-contained rage.

Leorio rolls down his window and Kurapika can hear him muttering curses under his breath as they fish around their pocket for their key. Just as they finally pull it out and jam it into the lock, Leorio shouts, “I meant it, you idiot! Ask me again when you’re sober!”

Kurapika’s skin prickles with heat as they turn and yell, “That’s - That’s assuming I’ll still want to!  _ Idiot _ !” and it’s both an insult and an admission of weakness, because the whole point of getting drunk tonight was to summon the courage to kiss him, but Leorio, in his infinite wisdom, still just doesn’t  _ get it.  _ And besides, Kurapika isn’t interested in making a move again only to face another rejection. Ask again when they’re sober? Yeah, right.  _ Fuck you, Leorio. _

“Just - “ Leorio sputters, voice cracking embarrassingly, “Just get some rest, dumbass! Drink water!”

Kurapika grits their teeth, hating that he’s being nice despite everything. “ _ Fine _ !” they holler spitefully, swinging their door open.

“ _ Good _ !” they hear Leorio yell back angrily just as they slam it shut behind them.

  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  


Kurapika wakes up to some idiot repeatedly pressing the doorbell to the point where the cheerful melody that’s supposed to play after every push of the button keeps cutting itself off like a broken record. They groan loudly, pressing the heels of their palms against their eyes before sighing, rolling over and squinting at their alarm clock. 11 am.

Their body lurches into a sitting position in surprise at how late it is, head spinning slightly as an unwanted reminder of their alcohol intake the night before. They still, letting their body adjust to the new pose, and are relieved when nausea doesn’t overtake them and force them to scramble to the bathroom before they vomit in the trash bin by their desk. They have pretty good luck with hangovers for the most part and that seems to include this morning, but it’s hard for them to consider themselves truly lucky when there’s some kind of madman on their doorstep who just  _ has  _ to have their attention right now. 

Kurapika kicks their blanket off and forces themself out of bed, adjusting their sweat pants and maneuvering into a binder while the staccato tone of their door bell fills the house. They grumble when pulling open the door to their closet, bleary eyes scanning their shirt options since apparently the world is about to come to its fiery fucking end unless Kurapika answers the door  _ right this second _ . They spot an oversized one that actually belongs to Leorio on one of the hangers and freeze up.

They feel silly for the ache in their heart that forms when they see the faded Ghost Busters logo on the front. Leorio left it here by accident once and has been wondering where it’s been ever since, Kurapika never telling him they’ve had it all this time. Leorio is such an idiot.  _ I’m such an idiot. _

Mood having miraculously worsened, they pull the shirt on and run their fingers over the soft fabric, almost buttery from years of use, and indulge in the sliver of comfort it affords them. They stand there in the sobering morning light of their bedroom for a moment, palms smoothing out the wrinkles in Leorio’s shirt as they close their eyes. Once the door bell becomes impossible to ignore any longer, they head down the hall and descend the stairs, the noise getting louder the closer they get to the front door.

With their death glare firmly in place, they grasp the door handle and tug harshly, saying, “I’m  _ terribly _ sorry, but the lady of the house is - “ and then close their mouth, expression wiped blank.

Leorio is frozen mid-push, finger hovering just over the door bell. Kurapika studies him in tired confusion as the melody carries through their house to completion this time, now accompanied by morning birdsong drifting in through the open front door. Surprise washes briefly over Leorio’s face before ebbing away to determination, his stubbled jaw squared like he’s ready for a fight. The music comes to a stop.

“Wha - “ Kurapika starts in disbelief, not even knowing what they want to say, which ends up being okay, because Leorio cuts them off with a quick, “Are you sober?”

Kurapika gapes, too affronted to think about why he’s asking. “It’s  _ eleven in the morning _ ,” they gasp, “Of course I’m - “

“Good,” Leorio interrupts for the second time and Kurapika is about to scream about how he’s managed to outdo himself yet again, always surprising them with just how  _ stupid  _ he can be, but they don’t get the chance. Leorio gathers their face in his hands, closes his eyes, and pulls them in.

And finally, Kurapika gets it.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for this chapter: rock bottom - modern baseball
> 
> so this chapter actually wasn't my idea!! Katt1848 left a comment on chapter 5 saying they wouldnt be opposed to reading a oneshot about what leorio and kurapika were up to at the party and i thought to myself: yes. hell yes. 
> 
> and so chapter 5.5 was born (except ao3 is still calling it chapter 6 but whatever!) turns out kurapika was the oblivious one all along! how about that
> 
> anyway, like, subscribe, comment, send me a letter via messenger pigeon telling me that my uncle bartholomew has died of tuberculosis - whatever floats your boat. or you can just hit me up on tumblr, that works too
> 
> chapter 6 is already in the works!! can't make any promises as to when it's going up but stay tuned, i'm not abandoning this fic

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaaaaa i'm not used to writing multichapter fics, i hope this goes well lmao
> 
> so i'm gonna estimate and say this is gonna be about 15 chapters in total, but that could change. we'll see. i'm gonna update as regularly as i can!! I have the first five chapters basically done and the rest are planned out, so it shouldn't be too much of a problem.
> 
> anyway, follow me on social media if you want!!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [main blog](http://eijier.tumblr.com//)   
>  [art blog](http://luftballons99.tumblr.com/)   
>  [twitter](https://twitter.com/waldmotel)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> thanks for reading!


End file.
